The Fates That Tore Us Apart
by Mnemoli
Summary: PART 3 OF "THE ROGUE VARIABLE": As Sole Survivor Myra Larimer struggles with the knowledge that her greatest enemy is also the only family she has left, she finds herself forced to choose a side. But can she live with the consequences of her decision? When allies become enemies and friends find themselves betrayed, who will be left standing by her side?
1. The Old Dog

**1\. The Old Dog**

_Preston has an eventful run-in with Ronnie Shaw. Myra returns to the Castle._

* * *

Fog clung to the Castle's battlements like tufted fleece, obscuring the world beyond the fort. The concrete walls were stark and bare against the white mist, figures moving like shadow puppets as they went about their morning work. It was the third day of heavy fog, and tensions were high in the fortress as minutemen jumped at shadows that might be hostiles moving beyond the walls, only to find that they were harmless tricks of the light.

Still, work had to continue, and so the Castle's staff labored ever onward, turning the once-vacant ruin into a command center to be proud of. Even in these conditions, their responsibility to the Commonwealth would not allow them time to relax. As far as anyone was concerned, what precious time they had could run out at any moment, and they had to be ready.

"Move that turret over to the left a bit, Guerra!" called Preston from beneath the reconstructed Castle wall. The Minuteman's newest officer stood on top of the forty-foot-high concrete structure, struggling with the heavy machine gun. She threw her whole body into it, finally scooting the turret half a foot closer to the corner of the battlements.

Preston couldn't help but laugh as he watched her struggle. Over the last month, he'd gotten to know Talise fairly well, at least well enough to know that she rarely did anything the easy way. Still, she'd relaxed since she and Preston had returned from Jamaica Plain, and the Colonel was glad to see it. While they hadn't managed to find any surviving members of her deceased boyfriend's family, the town having become completely overrun with feral ghouls, Talise had at least gotten the opportunity to learn more about Henry's early life from a half-burned journal they'd recovered at his family's old homestead. Preston had been more than willing to help her continue the search, but Talise had come to the difficult conclusion that their odds of finding Henry's next of kin were slim at best, and she had insisted on returning to the Castle and joining up with the Minutemen. He couldn't say that he was entirely unhappy that she'd decided to stick around.

"Is that better?" Talise huffed, her face red from exertion.

"Looks good," the Colonel replied, giving her a thumbs-up. "That wall should have enough defenses set up on it now. Come on down and get cleaned up before breakfast."

"Yes sir!" the young woman replied, heading for the stairs.

Preston looked about the courtyard with a satisfied smile on his face. It had taken months, but the Castle's walls were finally finished. The heavy armor plating on the outside of the concrete walls had been a good first step. Now, every wall was being armed against a siege that seemed inevitable. The Commonwealth had taught Preston many lessons in his time serving her, but perhaps the most critical was this: for every fortune, misfortune was sure to follow. No power or security came without a price, and the Minutemen had grown dramatically in power. Every settlement they protected was diligent about sending recruits to the Castle, to the point where Preston had a hard time training all the new members himself. That sort of population was bound to garner the unwanted attention of the Institute. Preston knew they would come. It was just a matter of when.

Still, the Colonel wasn't content to just seal the doors and wait. There was a whole world out there, full of people who needed a chance to determine their own future free from the fears that plagued their lives. And now that the Minutemen had the numbers, it was time to send dedicated squads to defend the settlements already allied with them. They needed to show those that remained neutral that today's Minutemen, at least, kept their word.

A small stage had been constructed at the base of the northern wall the evening before, in preparation for the reassignment ceremony that would take place soon, if the damn fog would lift. Preston wasn't a huge fan of pomp and circumstance himself, but he'd learned how valuable events like these could be for morale. The only thing that would make the ceremony better would be if the General herself bothered to show up to preside over the squad selection, but Preston wasn't even sure where Myra was. He tried to pretend that he wasn't bothered by her absence, that he didn't blame himself for driving her away with his awkward declaration of love. He just hoped that she wouldn't stay away forever. The Minutemen still needed her as a symbol of hope, a rallying point. Without Myra, Preston worried that the whole beautiful dream of a free Commonwealth would fall apart.

As Preston checked the stage's structural integrity one more time, he heard a loud, grating voice from beyond the Castle wall.

"Hey!" cried the voice. "I heard this place belongs ta the Minutemen again! Yer General in there? I need ta speak with her!"

Preston dashed up the stairs to the top of the battlements. Below, he saw a lone figure in what appeared to be military fatigues, though the fog made it difficult to see many details. Whoever it was was standing with their hands on their hips. "Who are you, and what do you want with the General?" he asked cautiously.

"The name's Ronnie Shaw, though ya young pups probably don't remember me. I came ta see what all the fuss was about. Apparently, yah new General's got quite the reputation. I thought maybe it was time I came back, offered what I know."

"You're a minuteman, then, aren't you?" Preston asked.

"Was," Ronnie replied coldly. "I was a Minuteman, back when that meant something."

"We're hoping that it means something again," the Colonel replied. "Hold on. I'll let you in." He activated his radio. "Davis, would you please open the door? We have a guest."

"On it!" Kes replied, from her station by the entrance, pressing the door release. The heavy wooden gate swung open, and the newcomer strode inside, glancing around the compound with disdain. "Can't say I love what ya've done with the place," she called, "but I guess it's better than nothing. Where's yah General?"

Preston's hackles rose slightly. They'd worked tirelessly to restore the fort to its former glory, and here was this stranger out of nowhere, criticizing his men? Preston wasn't having it. At the same time, however, he didn't want to risk aggravating Ronnie. If the old-timer really did have important information, the Colonel realized that he was going to have to play her games. "She's away, currently," he replied. "But we'll reach out and see if we can get her here. Just sit tight." He turned to Forrester. "Jake, send a message to the General. She needs to get here. Now."

"What do I tell her?" Forrester asked over the radio.

"Just tell her that there's someone here who wants to meet her, and it's urgent," Preston replied. "Emphasize the urgent part. I don't want her blowing me off again."

Ronnie scoffed. "Sounds like yah General's a real piece-a-work. Who leaves their troops ta fend for themselves? Disgraceful."

Preston sighed. "General Larimer's a busy woman, but even still, she's done a lot for the Minutemen. When you meet her, maybe you'll see that."

"Attention!" blared Forrester's voice over Radio Freedom as he enunciated clearly and slowly into the microphone. "This is an urgent message for the General. If you're listening, we have a...situation at the Castle. There's a -what the-Hey! You can't do that!"

Preston watched in disbelief as the newcomer pulled the mic out of Jake's hands, pushing the young Lieutenant aside. "All right, listen up, General," the old woman snarled. "Get yah heinie back here pronto. This is Ronnie Shaw. Ya've never heard of me, but yah'll want ta talk ta me."

"Ma'am!" Jake protested with a grimace. "That's delicate equipment!"

"All right," Ronnie grumbled. "Don't get yah panties in a bunch. Ya can have yah precious mic back." She shoved the device back into the broadcaster's hands, turning back to Preston. "That ought ta get her butt in gear. Now, are ya the one in charge here, in the meantime?"

Preston nodded, offering the ornery old woman a handshake. "Colonel Preston Garvey. I handle the day-to-day situations for the General while she's away."

"Huh," Ronnie grumbled, accepting his hand. "Well, ya at least seem competent enough." She pulled roughly on his arm, quickly turning it behind his back in a gooseneck. Preston yelped in pain as she forced his fist up his back just hard enough to incapacitate him. "Still, ya screwed up. Can ya tell me exactly what ya did wrong?"

Preston's eyes watered as he glanced around the compound. At least a dozen guns were trained on them from around the keep, his Minutemen ready to destroy Ronnie at his command. "You're outnumbered, Shaw," he groaned. "If you're here to hurt us, you'll never leave the Castle alive."

"I shouldn't have even been able ta get through the damn door!" Ronnie said angrily. "What if I was a synth infiltrator, or a raider? Ya had no way of knowin', but ya just let me waltz right in here. Idiots, the lot of ya. This isn't playtime, kids. It's war. And ya have to take it seriously, or the whole 'Wealth's boned. Understand?"

Preston nodded. "It's okay!" he called to the guards. "Stand down. We're all friends here." Ronnie released his arm from the lock. The Minutemen lowered their weapons, though many of them still watched Ronnie suspiciously. The Colonel rubbed his arm gingerly. "Well, thank you for the lesson," he muttered. "You're right. I wasn't thinking clearly."

Ronnie sighed. "Ya can make it up ta me by tightening security on the door. Back in my day, we had a squad posted there 24/7. Ya have the manpower, don'tcha?"

Preston shook his head. "We're reassigning most of the Minutemen currently stationed here to our settlements. I'm only keeping a skeleton crew at the Castle until we've trained more to take their place. I can't keep all our manpower locked behind these walls while people are dying out there."

"People are always gonna be dying out there, Garvey," Ronnie said coldly. "Yah first priority should be ensuring that the Minutemen don't die out with them. Now, I've got some ideas that'll help with that, but yer gonna have ta let me implement them. Startin' with screening yah current militia." She produced a clipboard from her pack, a list of questions printed neatly on it in red ink. "I happened by a place called Covenant a couple years back. Crazy-ass folks there, but they'd been working on a way ta detect synths using simple logic questions. We should screen everyone here immediately."

Preston frowned. "I'm not sure the General would approve of that," he said. "She believes that free synths are welcome in our ranks, so long as they work hard and follow our rules like everyone else."

Ronnie laughed in disbelief. "Next thing, yah'll be telling me that she's training up a squad a' Deathclaws to fight for her. Because that, at least, is less dangerous than having synth spies in our ranks. Ya know a Deathclaw's a Deathclaw, what they'll do, what motivates them. A synth? Well, that's just asking for trouble. No way to tell if they're still workin' for the Institute. Ya might as well just tear down these walls ya'self and wave a great white flag around."

The Colonel sighed. "Still, it's the General's call. I trust her judgement. But you don't know General Larimer like I do, so I can understand your hesitation."

Ronnie rolled her eyes. "From what I've seen so far, Colonel, I'm not impressed. But who knows? Maybe this General Larimer will surprise me."

* * *

It was nearly midnight when the alarm went up from the front gate, rousing Preston from his fitful slumber. "What is it?" he groaned into his radio.

"General's back!" Zev shouted, "and she's brought company! Got a whole bunch of Super Mutants on her tail. Turrets are doing what they can, but I'm not sure it's enough."

Preston leapt out of bed, putting his boots on quickly. He didn't have time to bother with much else, so he threw his coat on over his boxers and grabbed his laser musket from its hook on the wall as he ran past it. "Well, what are you waiting for?" he asked. "Open the gate and let her in!"

"Don't listen ta him!" Preston heard Ronnie admonish Zev. "Ya open those doors, and we'll be invitin' all those muties in for a midnight snack. Yah General's just gonna have ta fend for herself."

"But, ma'am…" Zev protested, "that's our General out there!"

"I don't care if it's the President of the former United States himself," Ronnie snarled, "I'm not letting ya open that door!"

Preston, by that point, had cleared the hallway and was already on his way to the guard tower above the gate. The firing of the turrets was deafening, spouts of hellfire illuminating the starless night. He could hear the taunting cries of the mutants long before he saw them, and he shuddered as he thought about Myra being trapped beyond the walls. Hopefully, he wasn't too late. "Damn it, Shaw, you're not in charge here!" he screamed, firing a flare from his flare gun down towards the bellowing horde. He couldn't risk hitting Myra. He had to get some light on the battle. "Open the gate, Zev! We'll just have to risk it."

"Ya make one move towards that button, boy, and yer dead," Ronnie hissed. Preston heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked. It didn't take a genius to visualize what was happening down below. The Colonel's heart pounded in his ears as his mind raced. He could run down and protect Zev, or he could help Myra by covering her from above. There was no time to do both.

Preston cried in frustration as he fired his laser musket at the nearest mutant. He grabbed at his radio angrily. "Zev, don't be a hero, okay? I'll do my best to cover the General from here. Ronnie, when this is over, we're going to have words."

"I expect that we will," the old woman replied calmly.

With that, Preston returned his attention to the scene beneath him. Myra knelt on the very doorstep of the fort, her laser rifle held trembling in her hands as she fired round after burning round into the horde. From what Preston could see, he counted at least seven Super Mutants still standing, their wrath concentrated on the General's failing form. Preston cranked his musket and fired, trying to take down the closest target, a large, ugly brute with a sledgehammer who was charging Myra's position. He managed to catch it in the arm, sending the hammer spiraling off into the night, followed by a scream of rage from the green monstrosity. Still, the creature wasn't downed, merely wounded, and it continued its ferocious charge. Myra screamed as the brute caught her around the waist, hurling her against the Castle walls like a rag-doll. She fell to the ground, unmoving.

"General!" screamed Preston, firing at the Super Mutant once more. This time, he caught the creature squarely between the eyes, and it keeled over, rage and confusion frozen on its dead face. "Damn it, you'd better live," Preston muttered, his heart sinking. Zev was right. Even between Preston and the turrets, Myra's chances were slim. If she was still alive, she wouldn't be for long. "I need more men on the walls!" Preston cried into his radio. "Hurry!"

"Oh, fuck this!" screamed a gravely female voice from behind Preston, "Duck, Garvey!" Before he could react, he felt a blazing woosh as a missile careened past the side of his head. The shell exploded into the crowd, sending chunks of mutant flying in all directions as two of the beasts fell. The Colonel turned to see Kestrel Davis grinning at him as she reloaded her missile launcher. "Liberated this from the General's quarters a few days ago," the petite blonde explained. "And no, I'm not sorry."

"Right now," Preston replied as he took aim, "I'm not even mad. Just try not to kill the General. Or me, if you can help it."

"You're no fun," Kes teased, firing off another missile. "This thing's awesome. Can I keep it?"

"Absolutely not," Preston said. "You're a menace, Davis."

"Says the guy parading around in his underwear," she retorted.

Preston blushed. "There wasn't time, so...oh, forget it! If the General lives, you can ask her."

More bursts of laser fire joined the fray as the other minutemen found their positions along the wall. While not all made their marks, due to inexperience as well as the poor sight conditions, enough hit their targets to turn the tide. In a matter of minutes, the battle was over.

As soon as the last monster fell, Preston tore down the stairs to Zev's position. He shoved Ronnie out of the way, slamming his fist down on the door release button. "Ignatius, I need you to prep the infirmary!" he bellowed into his radio, dragging Zev with him as he ran to the gate. "Let's hope the General's still got a need for it."

"I'm sorry, Colonel," Zev said, his eyes brimming with tears. "My life's not worth all that much. I should have opened the door."

"I'm not angry at you, Stern," Preston replied, trying to sound calmer than he was. "It's Shaw's fault if anything happens to the General, not yours. We just need to- Damn it!" he exclaimed as he neared Myra's still form.

She was lying on her side, curled into a loose ball. Her laser rifle lay discarded a few feet away, partially submerged in one of the rivulets of mutant blood that flowed along the gate towards the lake. Myra's body was covered in scrapes and bruises, including a rather nasty gash just above her right temple that stained her snowy hair with sticky clumps of half-clotted blood. Preston noted with alarm that she wasn't wearing her armor, her soft body barely concealed by scraps of green fabric that were once a dress, now torn to shreds. Without armor, it would be a miracle if the Super Mutant's blow wasn't fatal.

With the exception of her head wound and a few other concerning lacerations, Myra seemed to be mostly unscathed. Still, as Preston knelt beside her still body, he noticed that her breathing was ragged and shallow. He scooped her up carefully in his arms. "Zev, grab the General's gun," he ordered. "I'll take her to the infirmary."

Zev nodded, picking up the blood-soaked rifle with a look of disgust. "Is she going to be okay?" the young man asked as they raced back towards the keep.

Preston sighed. "I honestly don't know. She looks fine, but for all we know, her insides could be all busted up. We have to just do what we can, and hope that's enough."

Ignatius was already preparing a large dose of his usual herbal remedy when they entered the clinic, boiling strange roots and powders to create a bitter broth. Preston had been skeptical when the doctor had first started using his plant-based treatments, but he had to admit that whatever was in them seemed to work well. The medic's eyes widened as Preston gently laid Myra's unconscious body on one of the hospital beds. "What the hell happened to her?" the gruff giant exclaimed.

"For starters, a Super Mutant tossed her against the fort," Preston replied. "Some of her wounds look older, so I'm not sure what caused them."

Ignatius frowned. "Has she been unconscious long?"

Preston nodded. "Nearly six minutes, now. But she's still breathing."

"That won't mean much if she never wakes up," the medic replied, pawing through the ingredients on a tall set of metal shelves. "We have to assume there's internal bleeding, probably at least some broken ribs. If we're lucky, her major organs are okay, but we can't bank on that either." He grimaced, holding up a glass jar with some sort of dried purplish flower petals in it up to the light. "Super Mutants," he grumbled, placing the jar back and selecting another. "I was really hoping there weren't so many of them in the East. Well, at least you don't have Nightkin."

Preston wanted to ask what a Nightkin was, but he was frankly more worried than curious at this point. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked.

Ignatius nodded. "We'll need to get her to drink an infusion of fever blossom, bloodleaf, and a tiny hint of glowing fungus to boost her body's recovery. But we can't wait for her to wake up, so we'll need to get a feeding tube set up." He grabbed a coil of thin plastic tubing from the shelving unit, tossing it into a pot of boiling water. "I've never had to use one on an unconscious person before, so I'll need you to hold her head steady while I place the tube down her nose."

"That seems...risky," Preston replied. "What if you send it down her windpipe by accident?"

"It's that, or we have to wait for her to wake up," Ignatius retorted as he prepared the infusion, "but she might be dead by then. We have no way of knowing how bad the damage is. I'm sorry, but we have to risk it."

"Damn it!" the Colonel cried. He turned to Zev, who was still clutching Myra's gun, tears in the boy's eyes. "Zev, you and Kes are to confine Ronnie in a cell until we know if the General's safe. Don't let her leave."

"Yes, sir!" the young man barked, placing Myra's gun on a table by the door as he left.

Preston sighed heavily, turning back to Ignatius. "Okay. Let's do it."

* * *

Myra regained consciousness about halfway through the next day, though from the cries of agony, Preston was sure she wished that she hadn't. He rushed to her bedside as soon as his duties allowed him to, cupping her hand in his as she whimpered in pain.

"Is there anything we can do to make her more comfortable?" Preston asked Ignatius.

The medic shook his head. "I've given her as much pain relief as I dared. From what I can tell, she's got at least three broken ribs. Frankly, considering what you told me when you brought her in, she's incredibly lucky to be alive."

"Can we at least take the tube out?" the Colonel retorted. "She should be able to drink now, right?"

Ignatius sighed. "Just to be on the safe side, I'd like to leave it in. But you're right. With the limited equipment we have to sanitize anything, we don't want to risk infection. Hold her still, will you?"

Preston gripped Myra's shoulders firmly, hoping that he wasn't hurting her. "I'm sorry about this, General," he said soothingly. "This is probably going to feel really strange, but I promise I won't let anything happen to you."

The medic took hold of the end of the feeding tube, slowly and steadily pulling on it. Myra's eyes widened in shock and horror as the plastic began exiting her nose, moaning desperately against the blockage in her throat. It hurt Preston to see her so afraid, but he knew that they couldn't stop now. After a few agonizing moments, the tube popped free, and Ignatius quickly tossed it back in another pot of boiling water to be cleaned.

Myra gasped deeply, her mouth opening and closing like a fish's as she struggled to overcome the unpleasant sensation. "That…" she whispered hoarsely, "ugh...water."

"Here, General," Preston said. He poured her a glass, carefully tilting it to her lips as the General struggled to sit up. She took a few small sips before lying back down with a cry of discomfort.

"I really...ugh...I need to stop coming here," Myra moaned.

"Or you just need to stop being so reckless, ma'am," Ignatius replied. "I'm beginning to think you've made a deal with the devil, considering how many times you've avoided death since we've met. You've got more lives than a damned cat."

"That too," she muttered. "How long...argh...am I supposed to be laid up this time?"

"Considering that we still don't know the full extent of your injuries," the medic continued, "you'll be lucky if you're back on your feet by the end of the month."

Myra shook her head slightly, grimacing in pain. "That's not going to work for me," she hissed.

"Well, like it or not, that's the reality of it," Ignatius said, holding out a shot glass full of pungent medicine. "It'll go faster if you take your tincture regularly, though I can't promise that it'll taste good."

She gagged as the liquid slid down her throat. "You weren't kidding," she replied."What's in this?"

"A few desert herbs I saved, plus some local plants that seem to work similarly," the medic said cryptically. "So far, it's the best cure for most things I've found out here. Should help the bruises heal quicker, at least." He turned to Preston. "I have to go check in with Kes. Call for me if she gets worse, okay?"

Preston nodded, watching the large man as he ducked through the doorway and headed down the hall. The Colonel eased the door closed behind him before turning his attention back to Myra, glaring at her. "Why were you out there alone?" Preston growled. "Didn't you bring anyone with you?"

Myra sighed. "I was with Deacon, but that didn't exactly work out," she muttered.

"Deacon?" he asked incredulously. "Where the hell is Paladin Danse? I can't imagine he'd be stupid enough to let you come here by yourself."

"Danse...ugh… he doesn't know I'm here," Myra replied. "I haven't seen him in weeks. As far as I know, he's still back at the Airport with the rest of the Brotherhood."

Preston frowned. "Did something happen between the two of you?"

Myra shook her head slightly. "It's not like that. I just...I learned something recently that might complicate things. A few weeks ago, I finally managed to get to the Institute."

"What?" Preston exclaimed, his eyes wide. "How? You never told me that you'd found a way in!"

"I wanted to keep things as small as possible," she replied, "so only the people directly involved in getting me there knew what I was up to." She broke down in a fit of coughing, crying in torment as her body convulsed with the effort. "Fuck!" she cried once her fit subsided. "Where was I?"

"You were telling me about how you got into the Institute," Preston replied.

"Yeah," Myra said. "So, long story short, I learned how to hijack the Institute's teleportation technology, and I used this crazy machine to launch myself into their facility. The how doesn't really matter. But what I found there, that's the problem."

"Whatever it is," Preston said, "I'm sure Danse can handle it. The guy almost died for you, General. I doubt he'll leave your side unless you beg him to go. I know I wouldn't, if I were him."

"Are you sure about that?" Myra asked, her emerald eyes full of anxious energy. "Is this room secure?" she rasped.

Preston nodded, making sure to turn off his radio. "It is now. What's the matter?"

"What if I told you that I found my son?" Myra asked bluntly.

"That's great news!" Preston said, smiling. "I'm so happy for you!"

"Yeah, well, it's not really," she said, her face blank. "See, he's the head of the Institute."

"What?" the Colonel gasped.

"It's the truth," Myra continued. "The big bad monster everyone's afraid of? That's my child. Now do you understand why I'm here by myself?"

Preston nodded. He reached out to hold her, but before he made contact with her he thought better of it. It wasn't his place, and even if it was, her body was battered and sensitive and he didn't want to cause her any more pain. "Are you okay?" he asked softly.

Myra shook her head, exhaling a long, shaky breath. "No. I'm not even a little okay. Part of me wishes that I'd found him dead. Then, at least, I'd still have someone to bury. I could move forward. But this?" She looked up at him, her eyes welling with tears. "Preston, what do I do? If I go back to the Brotherhood, they'll want me to kill him. And maybe that's the right call, considering who he's become. The Institute can't be allowed to keep hurting people. But even knowing that...that's my baby boy. That's my Shaun. How could I ever hurt him?"

"You said you were with Deacon," Preston replied. "That means the Railroad knows about this. What did they suggest?"

Myra frowned. "I don't know. I didn't tell them. Well, I told Deacon, but he promised to keep it between us for now."

Preston scoffed. "And you believed him?"

She sighed. "I...I don't know. Not any more. Look, it's all gone to shit. Everything's all fucked up. I can't even think clearly. I was on my way home to hide away from everyone for a while when I got your message, so I came here instead. And, well, I wasn't exactly watching where I was going. Hence the mutants."

"Damn," Preston swore under his breath. He smiled sympathetically at her. "I know things seem bad right now. And hell, you're right. In a lot of ways, they really are bad right now. But if anyone can find a way through this, General, it's you. Whatever you need, the Minutemen are behind you."

"Thanks," Myra said sincerely. "I know I can count on you, Preston. That's why I came back as soon as I got your message." She grimaced. "Speaking of, who is this Ronnie person, and why does she seem to think she's in charge around here?"

Preston sighed. "She's one of the old Minutemen, from before my time. Seems like she doesn't love the way you've been running things. Or maybe she does? It's kind of hard to tell with her. Apparently she wants to help, but so far, all she's been doing is second-guessing my orders and nearly getting you killed."

Myra groaned. "Sounds like a real peach. Well, I guess we should get this over with."

The Colonel shook his head. "General, you've been through hell. We can deal with Ronnie in the morning. Right now, the best thing you can do is rest."

"Is that an order, Preston?" Myra asked. "Because as far as I'm aware, I'm still the General here."

He laughed. "No, it's not an order. Consider it a request from someone who cares about you."

"Well, in that case," she replied with a weary smile, "I guess I'll comply. I am pretty exhausted."

"I'll leave you be, then," Preston said, heading for the door.

"Thank you, Preston," she called after him. "For everything."

"You're welcome," he replied, closing the heavy wooden door behind him. His eyes misted as he thought about what Myra must be going through right now. After everything she'd lost, to find out that her son was...no wonder she didn't seem to care if she lived or died. Carrying that kind of a burden was something that Preston couldn't even imagine, and the Colonel had plenty of demons of his own. His survivor's guilt had almost led him to his death. It came as no surprise to him that Myra had been taunting fate again. The drive to find her son had kept Myra alive. Now that she knew who he was, what that meant for the people who believed in her, it was a testament to her strength that she was still alive at all.

Preston wondered if Myra had picked a fight with the Super Mutants on purpose, knowing that she might die. It would probably be the easy way out of her situation. But it pained him to think that the people who cared about her mattered so little to her. Didn't she know how desperately she would be missed?

He felt hot tears on his cheeks, and he wiped them away in frustration. So what if her son was the devil himself? It wasn't Myra's fault. She hadn't gotten the chance to raise him. He was brought up as a creature of the Institute, molded by their ideology into the formidable head of their organization. As far as Preston was concerned, the only thing Myra and her son shared were their genes. Now, he only needed to help her see that.

Myra's strength and determination had saved Preston's life. She had given him something to believe in again, had shown him that his dreams of a free Commonwealth were still worth fighting for. If he had to, he would be that strength for her as well. One way or another, Preston vowed, he wasn't going to let Myra fall. For the sake of the Commonwealth...for his own sake, he would help her as long as he was able to.

He continued down the hall to the Castle's brig, a small room full of cages. Until Ronnie Shaw had shown up, the rusty iron bars had held no prisoners. Preston had even argued with Kes and her men when she'd told him that they needed a place to put prisoners. A shame that the fearsome Fox had been right, after all.

The Colonel smiled at Zev, who stood nervously outside Ronnie's cage. The young minuteman returned his smile awkwardly. "Any news?" the boy asked.

"The General's going to live," Preston replied. "No thanks to you, Shaw," he added with a glare towards the old woman. She sat on a simple stool in the middle of her cell, her battle-hardened eyes meeting his defiantly.

"I stand by what I did, Garvey," Ronnie replied. "If you'd opened those doors, we'd mostly be dead right now. A good leader needs to be prepared ta sacrifice the one for the many. I'm sure when she's better, yah General will agree with me, if she's got any sense in her head."

"And fortunately for you," Preston shot back, "we have a chance to find that out." He crept closer to the cell, placing his hands on the bars. "I know things were different when you were a minuteman," he growled, "but don't expect General Larimer to have any patience for you if you yank her around like you've done with me. If you do anything to compromise her authority, you'll be wishing I left you in this cage and tossed it into the ocean. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," the old woman said with a smirk. "Looks like ya have some balls after all, Garvey. I guess ya feel tougher when yah General's behind ya, huh? What, ya sleeping with her or somethin'?"

Preston clenched his fists. "Don't speak about her like that," he said as calmly as he could muster.

Ronnie laughed. "So that's a no, then. No wonder yah've got such a stick up yah butt. Look, I'm sorry that the General got hurt. I really am. Lord knows I've seen enough a' them come and go over the years. But if the Minutemen are going ta survive what's coming, yer gonna have ta learn that ya can't make exceptions, not even for leaders. Everyone's gotta be willing ta die, but smart enough ta live. Got that? It's a hard lesson, but a true one."

Preston sighed as he contemplated her words. What would he have done if the situation had been different, if it was someone else beyond the walls and not Myra? He wanted to believe that he would have made the same call, but he honestly wasn't sure. Would he have risked his men for anyone else? Or would he have played it smart, the way Ronnie suggested? Perhaps, in her own callous way, Ronnie was right. The Minutemen couldn't save everyone, no matter how hard they tried. And if they fell because of a single liability, they wouldn't be able to help anyone at all.

But was that the type of organization Preston wanted to work for, one that turned its back on the suffering and desperate to save its own hide? No. That had been the way of the old Minutemen, the cowards who had abandoned the people of Quincy and their own brothers-in-arms to save themselves from the wrath of the Gunners. And even if it killed him, Preston would do anything to prevent something like the Quincy Massacre from happening again.

"You're right that we need to be prudent," he said firmly. "And I know that you think you're helping. But I've seen what your methods can do in action, Shaw, and I can tell you that the path they lead down is not worthy of the Minutemen. We have to stand for all people, be willing to risk our lives for anyone who needs us, even if it's not the smart play. We're supposed to be the good guys, and that means that we don't turn our backs on anyone, especially our own."

"Then yah'll all die," Ronnie said, her eyes cold and determined. "But I'll be damned if I let ya go down without a fightin' chance. When yah General's up for it, I've got somethin' to show ya. Took a look around before ya locked me up, and I think the ol' armory's still intact. That means we can build artillery, really give it ta those synth bastards and anyone else who tries ta get in our way."

Preston's eyes widened. "No kidding! You know how to build artillery?"

Ronnie nodded, grinning. "I was in charge of the damned armory, back in the day. It'd be more right ta say that no one knows how ta build artillery as well as I do. But I'll need my workshop back, if ya want my help."

"That's General Larimer's call," Preston replied, "but as long as you stop trying to act like you're in command, and you follow the General's orders, I think we might be able to work something out."

"Great!" Ronnie exclaimed. "So when are ya gonna let me out?"

Preston shook his head. "Oh, you're not leaving the brig until the General's better. I appreciate any help you can give us, but that doesn't excuse what you did. Still, I'll make sure someone brings you a sleeping bag and something to eat. Don't want you to be too uncomfortable."

"Yer too kind," Ronnie mumbled sarcastically, "but fair's fair, I suppose. I'd do the same ta ya if it was me makin' the rules. Gotta keep the peace."

"I'm glad we understand each other," Preston replied. He turned to Zev. "Sterne, I'll send someone down with bedding and a meal. Just slip them through the bars, okay?"

Zev nodded. "You've got it, sir. I promise, I won't open the door for any reason. Well, except if there's a fire. That'd be okay, right?"

Preston sighed. "If it's a really big fire, I guess." He shot Ronnie one more pointed look before leaving the room, still trying to figure out her play. Was she sincere in wanting to help? Or was this just a ruse, acting cooperative and...well, not really repentant, but at least placid enough until she got another chance to start a one-woman coup? It was hard for him to tell. Preston wasn't a duplicitous soul. It was impossible for him to think that way. But Myra understood manipulation. If anyone could tame Ronnie Shaw once and for all, it'd be her.

The way things stood now, she'd certainly have time to do it. Poor Myra. Preston knew her well, and nothing would be harder for her than sitting still while she healed. He chuckled as he remembered the young woman he'd met in Concord, stubborn and insistent on doing everything herself. She'd changed a lot from the girl who'd gotten stuck in Mama Murphy's ceiling. In a lot of ways, she'd grown into the kind of leader he could really respect. But some things would never really change, and her refusal to ask for help when she was in trouble was still as frustrating as ever.

Preston made his way back to his room. He extracted a device from his coat pocket, a small cylinder-shaped flare, and set it on his desk with a grin. It was one of Myra's vertibird signal grenades, snagged from her pack after the Colonel had gotten her to safety. Preston wasn't a thief, not exactly. He was doing this for her own good. With a sigh, he pulled a sheet of paper out of one of the drawers and began to write a letter.


	2. The Best Intentions

**2\. The Best Intentions**

**_Danse confronts Myra about her association with the Railroad, and discovers more than he bargained for in the process._**

* * *

Paladin Danse had hardly left his quarters since he'd learned about Myra's association with the Railroad. There wasn't much cause for him to do so, anyway. Until Myra returned with information about the Institute, the Paladin was effectively on standby. But it wasn't boredom that confined Danse to his small room on the main deck of the _Prydwen_. It was a deep, twisting ache that seemed to grow with every waking hour, like an old wound that acted up when the weather changed for the worse. The thought that Myra had betrayed him, had betrayed everything he stood for, was unbearable. No amount of busy work could distract him from the gnawing, festering disquiet in his soul.

He barely ate, subsisting on the limited rations he'd squirreled away in his room in case of emergencies. He barely slept, his dreams haunted by visions of Myra, her mouth twisted into a cruel grimace as she pointed Righteous Authority at the Paladin's head, Deacon urging her to pull the trigger. There was no escape from the torment.

Maxson had checked in on him regularly at first, trying to break the Paladin from his funk, but the Elder had eventually relented and gave him space. No one else bothered to try. Thus, when there was a gentle but persistent knocking on Danse's door, he almost thought he was imagining it. "Come in," he said gruffly, and the door swung open to reveal an unexpected visitor.

Paladin Brandis stepped lightly into the room, closing the door behind him. The old man had recovered quite well since his return to the _Prydwen_. His skeletal frame had fleshed out some, and a healthy pink glow had returned to his pallid cheeks. Even his green eyes, once haunted and half-crazed, had regained some of their kind, wise light that Danse remembered from long ago. "How are you holding up, kid?" Brandis asked, easing into Danse's desk chair. He pulled a box of snack cakes from his satchel, tearing them open and tossing one to the younger Paladin. "Haven't seen you around much. You been avoiding me?"

Danse shook his head, holding the packaged treat unopened in his large hands. "Not particularly," he muttered. "I suppose it'd be more accurate to say that I'm just keeping to myself."

Brandis nodded grimly. "It's a terrible thing, Danse, losing your subordinates. Trust me, I know. But it's too soon to give up hope on our Angel. Knight Larimer's beaten the odds more than once. She'll pull through. I really do believe that."

"As do I," Danse replied. "That isn't what has me concerned."

Brandis sighed as he unwrapped a cake of his own. "Well, what is it, then?" he asked between bites. "Because you look like I did when Larimer found me, and that's not a good look on someone as young as you."

Danse frowned. "I'm not certain you'd understand if I told you," he said. "Or if you'd agree with my decision."

"Well, hell, kid," Brandis muttered. "You're the Senior Paladin here. I'm not exactly at a position in the Chain to question your decisions. But sitting in here cooped up with your demons isn't helping. You need to talk. Might as well talk to me. I'm old. I'll probably forget whatever you tell me by the end of the day."

The younger Paladin sighed heavily. "I suppose you have a point. It concerns Larimer. But I can't risk anyone finding out about what I've learned, not before she has a chance to explain herself. You're a good man, Brandis, but…"

The older man smiled gently at Danse. "But you're worried that I'll tell someone about whatever it is that's bothering you. I can't say that I blame you. The trouble with the Brotherhood being like a family is that it's hard to keep secrets. It's wise of you to keep whatever you've uncovered close to your chest." Brandis leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on Danse's desk with a small sigh. "But, that being said, I owe our Angel my life, Danse. You can trust that I take that sort of debt seriously. I'd follow that girl into the gates of Hell if she needed me to, sure as you would. So if you need me to keep my mouth shut, you'd best believe that it's locked tighter than Ingram's metal ass."

Danse thought for a moment, his brow furrowed. He knew that Brandis adored Myra, the woman who had given him his life back. Still, it was risky bringing another person into the circle of people who knew her secret, even someone as sincere as Brandis. Was the weight of Danse's concern heavy enough that he really needed another shoulder to bear it? Or was Myra's potential treason too great of a transgression even for the old man?

In the end, Danse's need for a sounding board won out, and he relented. "I believe you, Brandis. But what I'm about to tell you becomes public knowledge, you are the only one I'll have to blame."

"That's fair," Brandis replied. "So what is it that's gotten the Brotherhood's most unflappable Paladin worked up like a Squire on his first mission?"

"I've recently acquired some information about Larimer's...activities that could be a major liability," Danse explained. "If anyone finds out the specifics, she would be severely punished. As the Senior Paladin of this outfit as well as Larimer's sponsor, I have an obligation to report my suspicions to Elder Maxson immediately."

"But something's stopping you, right?" Brandis asked.

"I...I don't know," Danse groaned. "I've never neglected my duties. I've always stood up for the Codex, for order. The fact that I've even waited this long… I don't know what to do, Brandis. What if she's betrayed us, and my inaction leads to disaster?"

"What if you're wrong, and she's still loyal?" Brandis asked with a soft sigh. "Damn, Danse, I don't envy you. That's a difficult judgement to make. But, if you don't mind taking some advice from an old man's intuition, perhaps you should trust Larimer."

"How can you say that?" Danse retorted. "You don't even know what she's done!"

"And you do?" Brandis countered. "I know you, Danse. I've known you since you were an Initiate fresh from the Rivet City gutter, barely able to spell your own name, let alone recite the Codex. If you had conclusive evidence that our Angel was a devil in disguise, you wouldn't hesitate to unmask her. We both know that Larimer's prone to doing things in her own way, and sometimes that means that she walks a grayer path than we can follow. But that don't make her a traitor any more than it makes her a radroach in a human suit. You trust her. I can see it in your eyes. And as far as I'm concerned, you're right to. Our Angel's one of the good ones. Hell, maybe even the best."

"Even if she's working with the Railroad?" Danse asked, his voice trembling.

"The Railroad?" Brandis replied with a catch to his voice. "Are you certain?"

Danse nodded. "As certain as I can be without further proof. Now, do you understand the stakes? I read your report, Brandis. What happened to your squad, the ambush… Would you still stand by Larimer, if she was a Railroad agent?"

Brandis reflected for a moment, his green eyes misty, distant. "I lost three good men in that ambush," he murmured. "We hadn't done anything to provoke that sort of attack. Hell, we hadn't even begun our survey yet. We weren't threatening the Railroad or their interests. We were just too close for their comfort, I suppose."

"And Larimer may be working for that same organization," Danse pressed. "She may have even been sent by the Railroad to infiltrate our ranks. How can either of us stand by her when we can't even trust her?"

"That's where you're wrong," Brandis retorted. "I trust her. Larimer saved my life, gave me my purpose back. Even if she was involved in the Railroad, I don't think she'd agree to hurt us. That's not the woman I know. If she's involved with those nutcases, she has to have a good reason."

"I hope your assessment is accurate," the younger Paladin sighed. "Because I'll be perfectly honest, the thought of Larimer being the enemy is one I'd rather live without."

"Agreed," Brandis said. "I certainly understand now why you'd keep that information to yourself, Danse. If word got out, I doubt our Angel would even get a trial."

Danse nodded. "Banishment would be the humane option. More likely, she'd be thrown from the foredeck." His voice trembled. "I'll be honest with you, Brandis, I don't know what I'd do if that were to occur. I...I care for her too much."

Brandis smiled gently at the younger man. "I can't recall seeing you this concerned for anyone since Knight Cutler," he mused. "It's good to see."

Danse chuckled bitterly. "Not that it matters, if she really is a traitor. No matter how I feel about her, I have a duty to uphold. If I have to choose between her and the Brotherhood...how could I make such a choice?"

"Well, I guess the first step is finding out if your suspicions are true or not," Brandis replied. "You need to have a talk with our Angel, find out her side of the story."

"I don't even know where she is," Danse retorted. "Hell, I don't even know if she's alive."

"I guess it's your lucky day," Brandis said with a faint smile. He pulled a sealed letter out from his satchel, tossing it down on the desk. "This came for you this morning. The Lancer who delivered it had quite the story to tell. Apparently, the Minutemen got their mitts on one of our signal grenades." Danse's eyes widened in shock, and Brandis laughed. "Now how do you think they got one of those?"

Danse grabbed for the envelope, turning it over in his hands. The writing didn't match Myra's delicate cursive. His name was emblazoned on the envelope in blocky print letters instead. If Myra hadn't sent it, then who had? He tore the paper open, his eyes narrowing as he read the note.

_Paladin Danse,_

_General Larimer made it to the Castle, no thanks to you. She's hurt. Bad. We've got her as stabilized and as comfortable as we can, but there's not much we can do but give it time. I thought you'd want to know. Please come if you can. It would put the General's mind at ease, whether she admits it or not._

_I'll be expecting you by vertibird in the next few days. Don't wait too long. I can't guarantee that she'll recover._

_\- Col. Preston Garvey,_

_Commonwealth Minutemen_

"Damn it!" Danse growled, throwing supplies in his pack as quickly as possible. This couldn't be happening. Myra wasn't even back from the Institute yet. She couldn't be. If she'd come back, she would have checked in with him right away, wouldn't she have?

"What's wrong?" Brandis asked.

"Larimer's in trouble," Danse replied. "I have to go."

Brandis nodded. "Well, then, sounds like you've made up your mind after all, kid. Good luck. Just don't forget to tell Elder Maxson where you're going. The last thing you need right now is suspicion cast on you as well."

Danse frowned. "Of course. Thank you, Brandis."

"Any time, Danse," the older man replied with a thin smile. He stood, walking deliberately for the door. "If you do get a chance to see her, tell our Angel hello for me."

"I will," the younger Paladin replied. "I sincerely hope you're right about her."

"So do I," Brandis murmured, the metal door clanging shut behind him.

Danse continued packing as quickly as he could. He had no way of knowing how much trouble Myra was in, but for Preston to write him...her injuries must have been severe. In spite of how well he'd recovered in their care, the Paladin sincerely doubted that the Minutemen had the capability to tend to anything too serious. Their doctor didn't even believe in stimpacks. He briefly contemplated requisitioning some supplies from Cade, but the Knight-Captain would ask questions, and questions had a way of getting back to members of staff that Danse would rather not deal with until he knew for certain how he was going to handle things with Myra. So instead, he grabbed a few stims from his personal supply, as well as clean bandages and water in case the Castle had run low.

He hesitated for a moment before packing his chessboard and pieces. How long had it been since he and Myra had last played? Would she even want to? Was she even physically strong enough to play? Danse sighed, putting the set in his bag anyway. Knowing Myra, she was probably bored out of her mind at the Castle. If nothing else, she'd appreciate the gesture.

Once his pack was full, Danse climbed back into his power armor, then turned out the lights in his room and made for Maxson's quarters. The Paladin knocked insistently on the door, his heart in his throat. What if Arthur refused to let him leave? Or what if Quinlan had already gotten to him, had already poisoned him against Myra before Danse had a chance to get her side of the story?

"Come in," Arthur's gruff voice resounded from beyond the door. When Danse opened it, he was greeted with the familiar sight of his friend and leader typing furiously on his terminal. Maxson raised a hand, waving it idly as he continued typing with the other. "Leave it on the counter," he said. "I'll eat when I'm finished."

Danse cleared his throat. "Hard at work, Arthur?" he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice. Maxson's shoulders tensed. The young Elder turned in his desk chair, his eyes widening slightly as he took in the sight of his oldest friend.

"I'll admit," Maxson said as he stood to greet the Paladin, "I wasn't expecting to see you today, Danse. Are you feeling any better?"

Danse nodded. "I must apologize for being so negligent in my duties," he said softly. "I had quite a lot on my mind."

"So it would seem," Arthur replied. He eyed the pack at Danse's side. "Something tells me this isn't a social call. Are you planning on going somewhere?"

"Larimer's at the Minuteman headquarters. I haven't gotten too many details, but it seems as though she's sustained some significant injuries. Colonel Garvey urged me to come at once, as long as you find that acceptable."

"She's back?" Maxson asked, his piercing steely eyes trained on Danse. "You're certain of this?"

The Paladin nodded. "I've never known Preston to lie, Arthur. He may not be a member of the Brotherhood, but he does live by a code. If he says that Larimer is gravely injured, she must be."

The Elder frowned. "Why would she have gone to the Castle, instead of coming back to the airport? I gave her explicit orders to report to me as soon as she returned from the Institute."

"There are any number of reasons," Danse replied. "Perhaps her return trip sent her to the wrong location. Maybe she was wounded on the way and stopped there for help. I don't know for certain, and it doesn't matter anyway. I'm going to go retrieve her. Assuming I have permission."

"Of course, Danse," Maxson replied. "Recovering Larimer is an extremely important mission. If she really is back, she's the only person we know who's managed to infiltrate the Institute. We have to debrief her as soon as possible. But before you go," he continued, "I need to ask you a small favor." The Elder stalked over to his footlocker, digging through the box with a troubled expression on his scarred face. "Where did I...ah! Here it is." He pulled a small package wrapped in red cloth out of storage, handing it to Danse. "I wanted to give this to Larimer when she came back, but perhaps you wouldn't mind taking it to her instead."

"What is it?" Danse asked, weighing the package in his hands.

Maxson sighed. "If you must know, it's a collection of short stories I've been working on when I have the time. Larimer asked if she could read them, and perhaps they'll give her something to do while she recovers."

Danse smiled slightly. Arthur had always had a love for writing, ever since he was young. There had been many times over the years when Danse had caught him with a pencap in his mouth when Maxson thought that no one was watching. Since his promotion to Elder, such sightings had grown increasingly rare, so it was good to know that Arthur still found time for his notebooks. The Paladin didn't think that anyone else even knew about Maxson's secret hobby, and even Danse had never read any of what his friend had written. The Elder guarded his notebooks carefully. Maxson must have trusted Myra a great deal to be willing to share his stories with her.

Danse's heart ached once more as he thought about what he'd learned of Myra's associations. What if she really had betrayed the Brotherhood? Maxson had very few people who he was close to, fewer still that he really trusted. Danse could count the members of Maxson's inner circle on one hand. Given the number of people both outside of and within the Brotherhood who wanted him out of the picture, the young Elder had good reason to be suspicious.

Still, somehow Myra had joined the ranks of Arthur's trusted few. But if she turned her back on the Brotherhood, how would Maxson handle the betrayal? Would he ever trust someone again? Somehow, Danse doubted it. It would be nearly as devastating as Danse himself betraying the Elder. At least that was an outcome that was unfathomable to contemplate, or had been until Myra had entered the picture. If Danse was forced to choose between his best friend and Myra, he still wasn't certain what he would do. He was loyal to a fault, but if his loyalties were divided...it was better not to think on such things.

"I'll make sure she gets it," Danse said simply. "If there's nothing else…"

"No," Arthur replied. "By all means, go. Bring her home."

The Elder didn't have to tell Danse twice. In a flash, he was out the door, heading for the flight deck. He could only hope that Myra was still alive. After that, then he could worry about who she was really working for...and what the implications of her true allegiances would be.

* * *

It was a short but rough journey from the airport to the Castle, and Danse was extraordinarily grateful when he felt solid ground beneath his feet again. He loved flying, but given the circumstances, he couldn't wait for the trip to end. He barely acknowledged the young raven-haired minuteman at the gates when she let him in. His mind was so preoccupied with thoughts of Myra that it was hard to focus on anything else...that was until he stepped inside the old fortress.

The Paladin glanced around the Castle courtyard, his eyes wide in astonishment. The fort was no longer the seaweed-encrusted ruin it had been when he'd last visited. In the months since, the Minutemen had made significant improvements, crafting fortifications and gun placements that the Brotherhood would be jealous of. He noted with some concern the long iron barrels of what looked like artillery being polished and prepped near the radio tower. What did the Minutemen need such heavy ordinance for?

Danse glanced up at the sky, the _Prydwen_ anchored to the zeppelin tower of the old airport clearly within view, and his stomach twisted slightly. With that kind of firepower, the Minutemen could shoot the great airship down easily. No longer were they a group that could be ignored. If Myra really was an enemy of the Brotherhood, the strength of her militia could prove to be a far greater threat than anyone had believed.

Preston strode up to greet him, a grim smile on his face. "I'm glad to see that the gate guard didn't give you any trouble," he said cordially. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"Where's Larimer?" Danse asked bluntly. "Your letter implied that she was in peril."

"She's through the worst of it, thank goodness," Preston replied. "But as it is, she's got a few broken ribs and a pretty nasty concussion. And that's just what we were able to diagnose. She's on bed rest until Ignatius is satisfied that there's no worse damage."

The Paladin frowned, his eyes heavy with concern. "Do you know what caused her injuries?"

Preston nodded solemnly. "She got in a fight with some Super Mutants, and one of them threw her against the Castle wall. If she'd been wearing armor, she might have been all right, but as it was…"

Danse's eyes narrowed. "She wasn't wearing any armor?" he cried in alarm.

Preston shook his head. "Apparently she and Deacon had been...um…" he paused, his eyes widening as if he just realized who he was talking to. "Anyway, she wasn't wearing armor for whatever reason," the Colonel hastily amended. "Just a nice dress."

Danse scowled. So Deacon was involved in this situation, because of course he was. Instead of checking in with the Brotherhood, had Myra gone on a Railroad operation? The Paladin didn't want to believe it, even though the evidence was staring him in the face. How long ago had Myra returned from the Institute? How much information had she given to the Railroad? He felt a cold anger surge through him, tempered only by a great deal of sorrow. Was Myra lost to him after all? Had she ever been loyal?

The Paladin cleared his throat, tamping down his emotions. He didn't have time for speculation. Today, he only had time for the truth. "May I see her?" he asked gruffly.

"Of course," the Colonel replied, leading him into the keep. They stopped at the end of a long stony corridor before a set of heavy wooden doors. "This is the General's Quarters," Preston said. "Please be careful not to get her too worked up. We still haven't ruled out internal bleeding."

Danse nodded. "I'll certainly make an attempt," he replied, easing the door open.

The room was a little bit bigger than Danse's own quarters on the _Prydwen_, all gray stone and concrete instead of cold steel. It was well-furnished and very Myra, he noted with a slight smile. A large Minuteman flag hung on one wall, its slate blue softening the stark stone. Several of the other walls had been adorned with tattered cloth tapestries decorated with what seemed to be the beginning of a couple different art projects. To the left of the door was a large desk, overflowing with maps and books and other documents. Next to this stood a large set of shelves, filled with strange trinkets and jars of what looked like various pigments, as well as a selection of knives and smaller sidearms placed haphazardly throughout. _Righteous Authority_, Danse's treasured laser rifle that he'd gifted to her, leaned against the wall next to the shelf, faint bloodstains darkening the barrel. Beyond was a battered wooden table and a set of four mismatched chairs, a threadbare red tablecloth covering the flat surface. Finally, there was a large double bed, piled high with pillows. There, looking up at him with wide and conflicted eyes, was Myra.

She seemed paler even than she normally was, her skin almost like translucent wax against the soft blue sheets. As Danse approached her bedside, she lifted a hand shakily towards him. "You're not a dream, right?" she asked hoarsely.

Danse shook his head. "No, Larimer. I'm here."

She smiled gently at him. "It's good to see you, Danse," she murmured, "but what are you doing here?"

"Preston sent me a message," he replied. "He told me you'd sustained serious injuries, and that I should come as soon as I could. So I did. Are you recovering well?"

She nodded. "Preston. That sly bastard. Who would have thought? Still, it's...it's really good to see you."

He took her trembling hand in his armored one, squeezing it as gently as he could. In spite of his doubts, in spite of his worry, it was wonderful to just be near her again, to feel her hand cupped in his. It almost made him forget everything he had to ask, all the things he needed to know, all the horrible suspicions that had clouded his mind. Wasn't it enough that she was here, by his side again?

For the first time since he'd joined the Brotherhood, Danse found himself wishing that he hadn't become a Paladin. If only he and Myra had met some other way, in some other circumstances. Allegiances wouldn't matter if they were both civilians. None of this would matter. They could just be like the thousands of others struggling to survive in this cruel world, working side by side to build a life for themselves. Things would be so much simpler, if only that were the case.

But unfortunately, such speculation was wasted. Their circumstances were what they were, and their lives were not their own to spend on each other. He belonged heart and soul to the Brotherhood of Steel, and Myra...well, she had always been a complication. Now more than ever.

"It's good to see you too, Larimer," he said softly before releasing her hand and reaching into his pack. "I have a gift from Elder Maxson," he continued, handing her the package.

She unwrapped the parcel, her hands shaking with effort. As the cover of the worn composition notebook was revealed, she chuckled softly. "Of course. I'll have to thank him personally when we get back to the _Prydwen_. Whenever that is," she added with a groan of pain.

"Just be kind if it's not well-written," Danse replied. "As far as I know, he's never let anyone read his notebooks before." A cold shard of jealousy stabbed at him, but he wasn't sure where it was directed. Was he jealous of Myra for getting a chance to see inside Arthur's well-guarded inner sanctum, or was he jealous of Arthur for how close he'd gotten to Myra? Perhaps it was a bit of both, he thought. Either way, it was distracting and hardly worth worrying about. There were far worse things on his mind than Myra's relationship with the Elder.

"I promise I'll be tactful if it's awful," Myra said, setting the notebook on her end table. "So, did you bring me anything else fun, or just your handsome self?"

Danse blushed, furious with himself for reacting so strongly to her casual flirtation. "I…" he cleared his throat. This was hardly the time. He needed answers. "How long have you been back in the Commonwealth?" he asked.

Myra sighed, as if she too could feel the change in the wind. "I'll take that as a no," she replied. "It's been a few weeks. I meant to come back right away, but…" She trailed off, eyeing the door.

Danse walked back to the entrance of the room. He pulled the door of the General's quarters closed with a heavy thud before turning back to Myra. "Larimer, I think you owe me an explanation," he growled. "And given the danger you've put both of us in, it had better be one hell of an explanation."

"What are you talking about, Danse?" Myra asked, her eyes wide.

"I believe you're already aware of what I'm talking about...Whisper," Danse said, nearly spitting out the last word.

Myra's face paled even further, and she struggled to sit up in her bed. "I...how long have you known?" she gasped in pain as she fought the sheets that confined her.

Danse felt the last delicate shard of hope shatter inside him. He knew it was a long shot, but he really wanted to believe that Quinlan's information hadn't really been implicating Myra, that it was all just a horrible misunderstanding. "So it's true," Danse snarled. "You are a member of the Railroad after all." The Paladin glared at her. "After all we've done for you, everything I've...the Brotherhood has offered you, you joined the damned Railroad? You do understand who they are, don't you? What they stand for?"

"They just want synths to be treated as persons," Myra said defiantly. "I know the Brotherhood doesn't believe that synths are human. But Danse, what if the Brotherhood's wrong about gen-3 synths? What if they really are as human as you or me?"

"That's ludicrous!" Danse retorted, pacing anxiously. "Synths are machines. They are manufactured. Their very existence is a testament to technology going too far yet again, to human hubris destroying itself. Do you really want to live through another disaster like the one that decimated your world? Because if you let those abominations live, Larimer, that could well be the result."

"I understand the Brotherhood's concerns," Myra continued. "And I'm not asking you to agree with me, Danse. I'm just asking you to keep an open mind. If it is, in fact, possible that gen-3 synths are people, then we have an obligation to help them, just as much as we have an obligation to help other humans who need us."

"Are you hearing yourself?" the Paladin asked. "Synths aren't born. They don't die. They are manufactured, and they shut down. That is a fairly clear distinction. They do not have souls. How can they? They are fabricated."

"How would you know?" Myra exclaimed, her eyes pleading with him to hear her out. "Danse, how would you know if they have souls? Have you discovered some way to find the soul that I don't know about?"

"No," he replied cautiously, his clanking strides coming to a stop.

Myra nodded. "Exactly! There's no way to be certain if they are ensouled or not. So isn't it possible that an artificial being with intelligence and free will might possess a soul? I mean, how would you know, one way or the other?"

He thought for a moment. "I suppose it is possible," Danse conceded. "But that's hardly the point."

Myra shook her head. "No, it's exactly the point. If it's possible that they have souls, that they are, in fact, alive, then I believe that gen-3 synths have a right to live, just as much as any natural-born person. Even if you disagree with me on that, Danse, you have to acknowledge that it is wiser to err on the side of caution. Do you really want to be responsible for genocide?"

"Larimer, listen to me!" Danse growled. "Of course I don't want to commit genocide. But your Railroad friends are almost at that level already! Do you know how many people they've killed over the years in order to save an insignificant number of synths?"

Myra frowned. "The Railroad doesn't kill people, Danse. Not unless they're threatened."

Danse shook his head, pulling a fat stack of files from his pack and handing them to her. "That's incorrect. I did some research in the Brotherhood's archives. These files contain every known act of terrorism committed by your friends. They have murdered a significant number of people in the last few years, and many of the victims are our own brothers and sisters. Do you remember the old man you rescued, Paladin Brandis?"

She nodded slightly, her eyes welling with tears as she read through the reports. Danse knew the files forwards and backwards. The contents had occupied his every waking moment the entire time Myra was gone, so he knew full well the horror and dismay she must be experiencing. "Are you saying that the Railroad…" Myra murmured, her voice cracking with emotion.

Danse sighed. "We have reason to believe that the initial ambush on his squad was from the Railroad, yes. Brandis was on a recon mission, just like mine. His team hadn't even encountered any synths. Still, the evidence we collected at the scene suggests that the Railroad attacked them anyway, just to keep them from getting too close."

"Desdemona wouldn't do this," Myra protested. "She's a ruthless bitch, but even she wouldn't do something like this. Would she?"

"I believe that the evidence speaks for itself," the Paladin continued. "I'm sorry, Larimer. I wish I didn't have to show you these files. But I want you to understand who you've decided to join forces with. The Railroad is not on the side of justice. They are liars. They are killers. And if they even suspected that I had uncovered your secret, they would not hesitate to make you and I both disappear."

Myra stared up at him, tears welling in her bloodshot eyes. "But, Danse, how many synths has the Brotherhood killed over the years? Surely, the Brotherhood has caused just as much suffering as the Railroad has. Hell, even the Minutemen had their dark chapter at Quincy. One thing I've learned since I emerged from the vault is that no group of people is blameless."

Danse nodded. "That's certainly true, as long we accept your premise that synths are human. But the people the Railroad has killed are undeniably human, and there is no way around that fact. The Railroad doesn't value human life, Larimer. How can they claim to champion synthetic life when they have no regard for life itself?"

Myra thought for a moment, her brow furrowed. "You do have a point," she said quietly. "But I refuse to believe that every member of the Railroad thinks that way. I've...I know them, Danse. Some of them are my friends."

The Paladin sighed. "And I believed that we were also friends. I've come to trust and respect you. If this were just a matter of ideological debate, I might even be able to agree to disagree with you. But the fact remains that the Railroad is a corrupting influence. And if you continue playing both sides of the fence, sooner or later, you're going to find yourself alone."

"We...we are still friends, " Myra replied, her voice breaking. "I...I want us to still be friends. I need you, Danse. More than you know."

"If you're being sincere," Danse muttered, "you need to start behaving like it. Do you realize the danger you've put us both in? If anyone in the Brotherhood finds out about your...associations, you'll probably be executed. And as your sponsor, it is my duty to report you and accept my share of the blame."

Myra frowned. "So why haven't you turned me in?"

"I'm not entirely certain," Danse admitted. "I'm not particularly sentimental, as a rule. Perhaps I merely wanted to give you a chance to recant. I felt…" he sighed. "I feel like I owe you that much, after all we've experienced together. You matter a great deal to me, Larimer. But you have to stop lying to me. If we're going to survive this, I need you to tell me the truth. How long have you been working for them?"

She sighed raggedly. "I never wanted to hide this from you, Danse. I was hoping that I could find a way to tell you that wouldn't put anyone else I care about at risk."

Danse frowned, jealousy tightening its coils around him again. She'd kept secrets from him, to protect whom? Deacon? The Paladin's scowl deepened. He had disliked Myra's association with the duplicitous civilian even before he'd learned that the man was the Railroad's top intelligence agent. Now, the mere implication that Myra cared for the man filled him with ire. "I wish I could believe that," the Paladin replied. "I want to trust you, Larimer. But I'm not sure how I can any more. Answer me. Have you been spying for the Railroad since before we met?"

Myra shook her head. "Of course not! I was recruited a few months ago, when MacCready and I went to Goodneighbor."

Danse scowled. "Is MacCready also a Railroad agent? Hell, are all of your friends working for them?"

"No, although Mac and Preston do know about them.," she sighed. "Mac works for me, and that's the truth."

The Paladin felt a pang of guilt as he remembered the events that led Myra to Goodneighbor after they had cleared Fort Strong. If only he'd kept himself under control, had been able to face his fear of losing her after the Super Mutant attack...he should have stayed by her side. Damn it, why did everything go wrong every time he strayed from her side? Danse and Myra should have gone to Goodneighbor together. He should have been there for her. In a way, this was all his fault.

"Larimer," Danse said softly, "what did the Railroad promise you? Why would you join them when you already had the Brotherhood of Steel and the Minutemen at your back? Weren't we enough for you?"

"They want to take down the Institute, Danse," she replied earnestly. "Even if their motives are different, they want the same thing the Brotherhood does. And they have some significant resources at their disposal, methods and techniques no one else has. That's why I decided to ally with them. I figured that we could debate the synth question after we…" Myra's voice trailed off, a far, haunted look in her eyes. "I'm sorry. I never meant for things to turn out like this."

"Neither did I," Danse said softly. "I never wanted to doubt you, Myra." It was only after the shock on her face registered with him that Danse realized that he'd called her by her first name. Ordinarily, he'd be flustered by this breach of decorum. But at this point, he wasn't certain where they stood. Was she even his subordinate any more? If this was truly the end of their time together...perhaps it no longer mattered. She'd been Myra to him for months, although he rarely acknowledged it.

"I know you can't trust that I'm telling you the truth, Danse," she continued. "But believe me. The last thing I'd ever want to do is to hurt you. All I've ever wanted was to get my son back. Everything else was just a means to get there. But now...now I wish I'd found another way." Myra's eyes welled with tears. "Very few things in my life have been as painful as seeing you look at me like this, Danse. I'd take it all back, if I could. I'm so, so sorry."

Danse felt an overwhelming desire to scoop her into his arms and cradle her gently against his armored torso. He wanted to hold her close, to brush the lines of worry and regret from her lovely face, to give her the comfort both of them desperately needed. But he held himself back. For all her perfect words, for how desperately he wanted to throw caution to the wind, there were some lines he couldn't afford to cross. Not until he knew where they stood.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. No more apologies were exchanged. There was no need. Whether it was a foolish, treasonous decision or not, Danse believed her. He still trusted her. And, more than that, he couldn't bear to lose her because of his own mistakes.

Eventually, Myra sighed, biting her lower lip the way she always did when she was distressed. "So what now?" she asked softly.

"We still have quite a dilemma on our hands," Danse replied. "I'm reasonably certain that Proctor Quinlan suspects you, or will soon. As far as I can see, there are two options. You can leave the Brotherhood of Steel and go into hiding. You might be safe, but I...we would never be able to see each other again without risking us both being executed for treason."

Myra laughed bitterly. "Well, that's not really an option. After all of this, I won't leave you behind to clean up after me. What's the other choice?"

"I hate to ask this of you," Danse said with a measured sigh. "I know how important the Minutemen are to you, and whether I approve or not, I realize that you consider many members of the Railroad to be your friends. If there was another way...but the safest option would be taking the Oath of Fidelity. Formally join the Brotherhood of Steel, and make it clear to everyone where you stand. Then no one in the Brotherhood would turn on you, not even Quinlan."

Myra frowned. "Danse, I can't do that. I have responsibilities to all my allies. If I prioritize one group above the others, it could start a war."

"I understand that," the Paladin replied. "That's one of the reasons I was hoping to avoid you taking the Oath. But we don't have the luxury of half-measures, Larimer. Not at this juncture. If you're going to survive, Quinlan has to believe that you are sincere."

"I...I need time, Danse," Myra murmured, her emerald eyes searching his for answers he couldn't even begin to know how to give her. "That's not a decision I can just make on the spot."

He nodded. "I understand. That's why I'm prepared to take you away from here as soon as you're well enough to move. I have a vertibird on standby, manned by a lancer who owes me a pretty substantial favor. We can be halfway across the Commonwealth before anyone knows we're gone."

Myra scoffed. "Running away? That's unlike you, Danse."

"It's hardly running away," he argued. "You need a chance to think things through, and the further you are from Proctor Quinlan right now, the better. As far as anyone will know, you and I have a very important, urgent mission that requires our immediate attention."

The Paladin walked over to Myra's desk, grabbing a pen before furiously scribbling a message to Arthur.

_Elder Maxson,_

_Knight Larimer is experiencing severe psychological stress as well as extensive physical injuries. I am retroactively requesting an undetermined amount of leave for her and myself so I can keep an eye on her. I believe I still have almost a year in unused leave, so I trust this will not be an issue._

_I know our attack on the Institute must come first, but, frankly, if she doesn't take some time off, I fear Knight Larimer will not last through the coming conflict. As you yourself said, she is too valuable an asset for us to mismanage her right when we need her the most._

_I'll keep you informed of any and all changes to her condition, and we will return as soon as she is well. Thank you in advance for agreeing to this. If you do not agree to this, feel free to punish me as you see fit. Remember, you're the one who insisted on leaving her in my care._

_Ad Victoriam,_

_Senior Paladin T. Danse_

Good enough. He grabbed a signal grenade from his pack, setting it on top of the note. "When we're ready to leave," he said, "I'll take this to Colonel Garvey. I trust that he'll know what to do with it."

Myra's eyes widened. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"

Danse frowned. "When have you ever known me to not be serious, especially when it concerns the safety of my men?"

She smiled softly. "That's certainly true," she replied. "Still, are you sure you want to take this sort of risk? What if I decide not to take the Oath?"

Danse returned to her side in a few long strides, taking her hand in his once more. "I trust you more than almost anyone. I know you'll do what you perceive to be the right thing, even if I don't always agree with your conclusions. Whatever you decide, I'll do my best to protect you. If it costs me everything…" he sighed. "So be it. But if you're still holding something back, I need you to be honest with me. I can't protect you if I don't know all the variables."

Myra's gaze faltered. "I already told you about the Railroad."

Danse sighed. "I know. But there's something more, isn't there? What happened in the Institute, Larimer? Why didn't you come home to the _Prydwen_? You never would have risked exposing your involvement with the Railroad if you'd just done what you promised and reported to Elder Maxson first."

"Do...do we have to talk about this right now?" she whispered hoarsely. Her eyes looked past him at some unknown spot on the floor.

The Paladin nodded. "I need to know, Larimer. What aren't you telling me?"

"Sit." Myra patted the side of her bed gently, and Danse shook his head. She glared at him, patting the bed more emphatically. With a heavy sigh, he removed his power armor and sat awkwardly next to her, trying not to crush her battered body by accident.

"I'm not sure why this is necessary," he mumbled.

"I…" Myra smiled up at him sadly, her eyes brimming with tears. "This is going to be difficult for me, Danse. It's easier if you're close. Sorry," she added, blushing slightly. "I know it's awkward and weird, but I feel safer when you're here like this, okay?"

Danse nodded, his ears burning. "Very well," he conceded. He wasn't sure he understood what she meant, and he felt nervous sitting this close to her. He could feel the heat of her body through the sheets, the hard curve of her leg pressing slightly against his lower back as her body shifted. Even though they operated in close quarters most of the time, it was rare for them to be this close, with no armor in between to keep them safe. This close, they could wound each other gravely if they wanted. This close, it was harder to deny the growing bond between them, even if Danse was still struggling to ignore it.

He didn't want to admit that he loved her. The thought crept unbidden from the deep part of himself he'd caged it in when he'd found out about her Railroad involvement. He might in fact love her, but there were so many reasons why he shouldn't let that be true. What if she was toying with him? What if she only saw him as a friend and colleague? He couldn't risk their already frayed relationship by giving his feelings for her a name. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

But sitting beside her, watching her labor for words that would not willingly be born, he couldn't deny the truth to himself. He would conceal it as long as he needed to, even forever if that was how things panned out, but he knew. Danse knew for certain that he loved her. He loved Myra so much that the thought of leaving her side again was almost unbearable. Even if she betrayed him in the end, even if she killed him, he couldn't bring himself to ever part from her. He was hers, completely and entirely. May whatever god still ruled over this forsaken world have mercy on him.

He started as Myra laid her cold hand on his knee, and he turned to look at her awkwardly. She chuckled at him softly, her beautiful eyes flickering to life with her smile. "What's wrong, Danse?" She asked.

"It's nothing," he replied. "We've just talked about so much already today. Perhaps you're right, and we should continue this discussion another time."

She shook her head. "No. You're right. I need to be honest with you. After all you've done, you deserve to know the truth. I found him, Danse," she continued, her face falling. "I found my son. But he's not a child any more. He's the leader of the Institute."

Danse's mind reeled. How could this be? "Are you sure?" he asked.

"Definitely," Myra replied. "I've tried to come up with some way the Institute could have been tricking me, but the evidence speaks for itself."

Danse took her hand in his, lending her what comfort he was able. "That certainly complicates things. I assume that's the reason why you failed to report your findings to Elder Maxson?"

She nodded. "I'm not sure what to make of it all, Danse. Hell, I'm not sure what to do about it. Shaun's an old man, now, almost three times my age, if you can believe it. I missed… I missed everything. I never got to teach him to read, or soothe his nightmares. Those bastards stole it all from me, and now he's the worst one among them. They made him into a monster. My own son...my baby boy." She broke down in deep, angry sobs.

Danse struggled to find any words that would fix this situation. He never quite knew what to do with crying women. It was one of his bigger weaknesses. Someone slicker than him would have had the right thing to say, some simple solution to make everything seem right again. All the Paladin had was his gruff sincerity, and he had to hope that it would be enough. "I...I'm sorry," he managed. "I know this must be a terrible shock for you. I cannot even imagine what you must be feeling right now."

Myra shuddered as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "How do I carry out our mission now?" she asked. "Can I really kill my own child? No mother should have to make that choice, Danse!"

He nodded solemnly. "Agreed. You have been put in an unimaginable position. I'll ask Maxson to take you off this assignment. We will find another way to reach the Institute." Not that Arthur would agree, since he'd made his position on their mission abundantly clear while Myra was away. Still, Myra was being asked to kill her own son. Danse would risk Maxson's wrath to save her from that.

"No!" cried Myra. "No, this is mine to finish. I can't let anyone else take responsibility for my failure as a mother."

Danse sighed heavily. "It is not your fault that you were robbed of the chance to raise your son, Larimer. Therefore, it is not your fault that he grew up to become the man that he is. You cannot blame yourself for that."

"But I do!" she cried. "I do. It was my job to raise him, to protect him, and I failed. My son…"

He shook his head. "Thinking like that won't do you any good," he replied. "Believe me, I know somewhat how you feel. After Cutler, I felt like I'd failed as well. I realize that losing a friend is different from losing a child, but the fact remains that you did not make him who he became. It wasn't your choice."

Myra gripped his arm so tightly that he thought she might leave a bruise. "When I was pregnant," she growled, "I made a promise that I would give Shaun the best chance in life that I could. Is this really the best I could do?"

The Paladin placed his hand over hers. "I don't know," he replied earnestly. "But none of this was your choice."

"I could have refused to sign us up for the Vault," Myra continued. "We could have died together that day, or become ghouls. Either way, those bastards wouldn't have taken him, used him for their damned experiments. Did you know why they call him Father? It's because his DNA...my DNA is the model for all the gen-3 synths. They stole my baby to make their slaves."

Danse stared at her in shock. "I...I had no idea."

"I doubt anyone outside the Institute does," she murmured. "The synths basically worship him. Hell, a lot of the scientists do too. Everyone in the Institute was just so fucking _nice_ to me because of it. These terrible, twisted people, and they treated me like I was the Madonna. It was an awful, heretical nightmare, Danse. I can't even begin to deal with it."

His heart ached for her. How could it not? After all she'd gone through to save her son, to be confronted with something like that...it was a miracle that she still seemed sane, if he was perfectly honest. "That's all the more reason to move to a neutral location as soon as you're able," Danse said softly. "No matter what you decide to do, you deserve to come to that decision on your own, without anyone manipulating you."

Myra nodded. "It would be best if I was on my own while I figure out what to do about all this" she replied. "But Danse?"

"What is it?" he asked.

"I'd really like it if you stayed with me. I'll understand if you'd rather leave, knowing what you know. But I...I want you to stay."

Danse sighed heavily. Of course he wanted to remain by her side. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that there was nothing he'd rather do. But was it wise for him to put himself in this position? Was it right for him to remain, to influence her when he'd just told her to choose on her own?

Myra's eyes darkened as he hesitated, and she released her grip on his arm. "I'm sorry," she said blankly. "I'm acting like an idiot. You've indulged me enough."

Danse eased down next to her with a heavy sigh, lying beside her on top of the sheets. Carefully, he pulled her into his arms, protecting her the only way he had left to do so. If she was in a firefight, he would have shielded her as he always did. If raiders were staging an assault on her home, he would risk everything to bring her to safely. But against the worries and decisions that hung over her head like a guillotine blade, all he had to offer was this awkward attempt at comfort.

Myra tensed with a hiss of pain, but soon settled into his unexpected embrace. The Paladin thought he might have imagined it, but it felt as though she'd placed a gentle kiss against the arm of his flight suit as she nestled against him. Tears still flowed heavily from her bloodshot eyes, and he lifted his arm to her face, wiping them dry with his sleeve. "Thanks," she murmured softly.

"I'll never leave you," he said. "You're my responsibility, after all."

She chuckled weakly. "So what part of the manual is this tactic from?" she joked.

Danse smiled slightly. "Perhaps if it works, I'll have to write an appendix," he replied. "As it is, decorum prohibits actions like this, and with good reason. I trust you'll keep this infraction just between us."

Myra nodded. "You keep my secrets, Danse, and I'll keep yours."

In spite of himself, the Paladin liked the sound of that. He'd always been a paragon of decorum, never questioning the Codex that kept his adopted family alive. But ever since Myra had stumbled into the Cambridge Police Station, that weak black pistol blazing, Danse could sense a shift in his approach to his calling. Myra was changing him, and while that should have alarmed him, Danse found that realization surprisingly comforting to him. There was no way he could return to the man he was before. But with her beside him, he had no desire to do so.

Prudent or not, he loved her. And that, at least, was worth defending, even if she could never know the truth.


	3. The Bad Decision Tour

**3\. The Bad Decision Tour**

_Deacon has a bad day. Because he hasn't had enough of those._

* * *

Deacon was exhausted, emotionally and physically. Ever since that night up in Salem, he'd been searching half-heartedly for Myra, hoping that she hadn't been torn apart by the corvid Watchers that patrolled the skies of the Commonwealth at the Institute's bidding. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he found her dead. He really wasn't sure what he'd do if he found her alive.

Although it had been a few days, the spy's lips still seemed haunted by Myra's ministrations. What had happened between them was an illusion, a facade. Deacon knew that in his mind. But his heart wasn't entirely convinced. Whether it was simply the multi-year dry spell talking or something deeper, he wanted to believe that the passion behind Myra's kisses had been real. Even so, he feared finding out the truth. At this point, he wasn't sure what was worse, knowing that Myra didn't care for him or knowing that she did.

Once the endorphins had worn off, the reality of the situation had fallen about his shoulders like a lead vest. Deacon had behaved horribly unprofessionally, even for him. The spy could and did make light of the rules all he wanted, but there were some lines even he didn't dare cross. Work was work. Relationships were...messy. Most of all, they were for other people. Deacon neither wanted nor deserved intimacy with others. It was easier to be lonely than to put someone at risk. Even more so, loneliness was all a man like him could hope for. After the sins he committed, he didn't deserve to be cared for.

He wished that Myra could understand that. The look of hurt on her face when he'd driven her away had wounded him deeper than she could know, but he'd done it for her sake. Couldn't she see that? The last thing he wanted was for her to end up like Trailblazer, an exile trapped underground until the loneliness and grief drove her to desertion. Myra had already lost so much. Getting banished might be one loss too far. Besides, she deserved better than Deacon. Hell, she didn't even know who he was, really, what he was capable of. He was poison, pure and simple. If he got any closer to her, he could very easily destroy her. Worse still, Deacon realized, Myra could just as easily destroy him. It was better that things ended now, before they could even begin.

All the same, he wanted to make certain that Myra was safe. The spy cared for her, whether he wanted to or not. Even if he had to keep her at a distance, he'd do anything he could to protect her, just as he always had. From the moment he'd intervened outside Vault 111, he'd never stopped fighting for her. Like hell he was going to stop now. But how could he protect her from himself, from the ramifications of what he worried they'd both felt that night in the bar?

Deacon sighed heavily, continuing his trek towards Goodneighbor. It was the next place to look for Myra on his list. The church in Nahant had been a bust, filled only with memories. Besides, he had it on good authority that Myra frequented the Old State House when she needed a place to lie low. Odds were good that even if she weren't there, Hancock would have some idea of where she was. The ghoul mayor's drifter-based intelligence network was startling, actually. It put Deacon himself to shame more than he'd like to admit.

The small plaza by the gates was filled with onlookers when Deacon arrived, and it didn't take long for him to see the cause. Three bodies lay in the street outside Daisy's place, skulls cracked open to reveal the synth components inside. Deacon recognized one of the corpses, a drifter he'd bunked next to more than once. The other two were strangers to him, though apparently not to the citizens of Goodneighbor. As Deacon's eyes swept the crowd, he noticed that the gathered mob was not as unified as it normally was. Ghouls stood mostly on one side, pressing in on the other half of the crowd with fear and malice in their eyes. The other side was mostly other humans, with a few ghouls trying desperately to keep the peace between the factions. A few members of the Neighborhood Watch were holding people back from each other, trying to calm the rising tensions, but it was clear that a full-blown riot was only moments away.

"Any one of you smooth-skins could be one of them!" an ornery ghoul in a tattered suit yelled.

"What, so you want to just throw us all out, is that it?" shrieked an elderly woman. "You've known me since I was a girl, Greg! When McDonough kicked your family out, I stood up for you! Now, you want to kick me out of my home?"

"It'd be safer that way," another ghoul cried out. "None of them synths ever posed as a ghoul. Bet they can't figure out how. We're the only ones we know we can trust!"

"Maybe old McDonough was right," a man snarled back. "You freaks ain't human."

Shit. This was bad. Deacon had known for months that the Institute was trying to infiltrate and destabilize Goodneighbor. Honestly, he hadn't expected the city of misfits to band together even this long. But now, it was obvious that they had been working on borrowed time. The Railroad's efforts to secure the town were in vain. The population was all but prepared to consume itself, just like the people of University Point had. If someone didn't intervene soon, more blood would be spilled, and it wouldn't just be Institute-controlled synths that lost their lives.

Where the hell was Hancock? The mayor might be a mess in his personal life, but he always had a knack for keeping everyone united. Had he somehow not heard the yelling in the streets, or was this particular problem too big for even him?

A woman screamed as a radiation-weathered fist swung down, sending her reeling to the ground. The groups surged even more insistently towards each other, knives and bats materializing out of coats. There wasn't time to wait. If no one intervened, there was going to be a bloodbath. "Hey!" Deacon shouted, drawing the attention of the crowd, "knock it off, people! Can't you see that this is exactly what the Institute wants?"

"Who the hell is this guy?" The ghoul named Greg jeered. "Who do you think you are, asshole, coming into my town and telling me what to do?"

"You're better than this!" Deacon replied nervously. What the hell had he been thinking, getting involved like this? It wasn't his style. He was more of a pick up the pieces kind of guy. "Goodneighbor's a place where everyone's welcome!" he called. "That's what makes it special. Don't throw that away. You start kicking people out, and you're no better than Diamond City!"

"You're one of them!" roared one of the other ghouls. "Damned smooth-skin bastards! I'm tired of getting tossed aside by you bigots! We ghouls have a right to be here, way more than you do! You haven't been through what we've been through! You should pay for what your kind did to us!"

The crowd surged forward with a cry of contempt, and Deacon searched around for a place to run. This was why he usually just let these things run their course. He'd been spending too much time with Myra. Her stupid motivational speeches were rubbing off on him, and now he was going to die in a tremendously stupid way. Perfect. He closed his eyes, bracing himself against the town wall as the first blows descended.

The one good thing about getting beaten up as often as he did was that nothing hurt quite as badly as it used to. That was a small mercy, at least. After the first dozen or so blows, he almost couldn't feel any new ones. As he sunk to the pavement, his own blood hot and wet against his skin, Deacon felt overwhelmed by a sense of grim clarity. Perhaps this was how he deserved to go out, being torn apart by people he wanted to help. Was this how it had been for the man the Deathclaws had lynched? Maybe, in a way, this was justice. He'd been waiting for the scales to right themselves for so long, he'd almost thought he'd been given clemency. Deacon should have known that he wouldn't get off that easily.

Suddenly, he made out a voice crying over the crowd, barely audible to his failing ears "Hey! What the hell's going on here? Fahrenheit, get him up, will you?" Deacon felt himself pulled free from the mob, and he opened his eyes painfully to survey the situation. He was alive. What's more, he was tucked behind the broad back of a particularly angry amazon of a woman, her snarling face and readied minigun holding the mob at bay. Even without hearing her name, he would have recognized Hancock's hulking bodyguard anywhere.

The mayor himself pushed through the crowd to their side, clutching the side of his head as he glared at the mob with deep black eyes. "God damn, some of you people do not know how to behave when your beloved mayor has a hangover," he hissed. Now who wants to tell me why the hell you've been chasin' down baldie here before I really get impatient?"

"It's these smooth-skins, Hancock!" cried one of the ghouls defiantly. "They're all trouble. Hell, for all we know, they're all synth spies!"

"And all ghouls are a menace, bound to go feral and kill everyone at any time," Hancock retorted. "Yeah, yeah. We've heard it before. We all have! So why the hell are you acting like those asshats back in Diamond City? This ain't the Stands. We're better than them. Goodneighbor's not a members-only club. Anyone that wants in and keeps their nose clean can stay here. That's what we agreed on, right?"

"That was before!" Greg yelled, pressing forward through the mob. "Before these synths started replacing people. We gotta keep our town safe, Hancock. You know we do."

"And we will. But we're not going to start hurting innocent people just because they might be spies. That is not how we do things. Get that through your thick skulls, or we will have a problem. Do you want a problem with me, Greg?"

"Of course not," the ghoul replied nervously. "But these bastards gotta-"

Hancock sighed, pulling his knife from its holster. "We can do this the nasty way if you'd prefer. I really don't want to make an example of you, brother, but you know I'm good for it."

Greg scoffed. "This ain't over, Hancock. Sooner or later, things are gonna change around here. You'd best be on the right side when it happens."

"Funny," the mayor replied. "Here I was going to tell you the same thing." He turned back to the crowd. "Anyone who still believes in fuckin' freedom, get down to the _Third Rail_. Drinks are on the house for everyone who agrees that no one's gettin' kicked out of our little community who don't deserve it." Noises of agreement echoed through the mob, and the crowd slowly dispersed, returning to the gutters and tunnels from whence they came. Hancock walked over to Deacon, smiling grimly at him as he helped the spy up. "You all right, Deacon? Can you walk?"

Deacon nodded, spitting a mouthful of blood out of his mouth. "I've had worse," he said. "Thanks for coming to my rescue."

"You ain't exactly my first choice of damsel in distress," Hancock teased with a jagged grin, "but I guess in lieu of a tall, leggy blonde, you'll do."

"Hey, I can be a tall, leggy blonde," Deacon protested jokingly. "I was a girl for a couple months once, you know."

"And I'm sure you were quite the looker, too," the mayor replied, "so long as no one was lookin' too close. Not like it'd be hard to look better than you do right now, my man. Those bruises all from my people, or you come into town lookin' like you fell off the back end of a particularly angry brahmin? I'm not judging, I'm just curious."

"You don't need to fuss over me, Hancock," Deacon said. "I promise, I won't go looking for revenge. I'm just here on business."

"Your business doesn't usually involve you picking fights with the populace," Hancock replied, his beady eyes narrowed. "That's why I let your people operate freely in this town."

"To be fair," Deacon protested, "I didn't start it. Things were bad when I got here."

The mayor nodded. "Now that I believe. The Institute's got folks all kinds of worked up, and I can't say that I blame 'em. It's only gonna get worse from here, and I'm runnin' out of pretty speeches. Something's gotta give, and I just really hope it ain't our town. Goodneighbor's always had her problems, but we've made it work because none of us have anywhere else to go. We freaks and misfits stick together. At least we used to. Who knows, any more?" Hancock sighed, glancing at himself in a broken storefront window. "Maybe this beautiful trip's just comin' to an end. Always knew we had to come down sometime." He sighed. "Fahrenheit, you mind grabbin' some bandages and shit from Daisy's?"

The muscular woman nodded. "I'll get some Med-X too. You used the last of it, I think."

Hancock laughed. "Sounds like me. I'll see you at home." The mayor walked back towards the Old State House. Deacon wasn't sure if the ghoul wanted him to follow or not, but he tagged along anyway. The spy still needed to find out where Myra was, and the mayor was still his best lead. Without saying another word, Hancock held the door open for him, ushering Deacon inside. Once they reached his sitting room, the mayor seemed to relax somewhat. "Now that we've got you off the street, mind telling me what brought you here? Do you know something about what's been going on?"

Deacon shook his head. "I'm not here for the Railroad," he replied quietly. "Not exactly, anyway. I'm looking for Myra. Have you seen her?"

Hancock eyed him curiously. "What makes you think that I know where she is?"

"I know she drops in to see you once in a while," Deacon continued, "especially when she's in trouble. And the last time I saw here, she was in trouble."

The mayor sighed. "That's not exactly news. Trouble tends to follow her, far as I can tell. But somethin' tells me you're speaking of trouble in a more...hmm, concrete way, maybe? What'd you do?"

As Deacon struggled to come up with an answer, the door opened, revealing Fahrenheit. The young woman tossed a bundle of medical supplies on the couch next to him. "Patch yourself up," she grumbled. "You're bleeding on the furniture."

"Thanks," Deacon replied, sorting through the bundle.

Hancock sighed. "Fahrenheit, is that any way to treat a guest? Get some boiling water goin', will ya?" He knelt next to Deacon, pulling a small sewing kit and a lighter from his pocket. "That cut above your eye's gonna need stitches," he muttered. "I think I'm sober enough to get the job done. Lucky thing you caught me early in the day."

Deacon winced as he watched the ghoul sanitize the needle. He'd always hated needles. That was why when he'd hit his lowest, he'd always preferred pills and inhalers to injectables. "You sure that's necessary?" he asked nervously.

"I mean, hell, brother, I'm not a doctor," Hancock replied. "But I've cleaned up after enough bar fights and bad trips over the years. Tell you what? You take it like a man, and I'll dose you up with somethin' that'll make you forget all about it. What do you say?"

"Normally, I'd tell you to leave me alone," Deacon grumbled, "but honestly, right now that sounds pretty great."

"Right on," the ghoul said with a wide grin. "You just take it easy, and we'll take care of the rest. When you're up for it, then we can talk about our girl, okay?" Deacon nodded, and Hancock sighed, holding his head still. "Hang on. I don't wanna stab you in the face. Well, outside the parts I need to stab. Take your sunglasses off so I can see the damage."

"Sorry," Deacon replied. "The sunglasses stay on."

"Well, if you're going to be difficult…" Hancock dug around on his coffee table, searching for something in the massive pile of chems that littered it. With a triumphant smile, he pulled a few bottles of different pills from the heap. Deacon recognized one of the bottles as Day Tripper, but he wasn't sure about the others. The spy watched in fascination and horror as Hancock crushed several of the pills into a water-stained glass before reaching for a syringe of Med-X from the couch. "Fahrenheit, we still got any of that Quantum?" he called.

"There's a couple bottles in the kitchen," she replied. "You making another batch of Sunshine?"

"Thought we could all use some calming down after what happened this morning," Hancock said, emptying the syringe into the glass with the crushed pills. "You game?"

"You know I hate that shit," Fahrenheit said as she returned to the room, a steaming bowl of water in her hands. She set the water on the table before pulling a bottle of the glowing blue soda from her pocket, setting it next to the bowl. "Besides, someone's gotta stay sober if those idiots decide to try anything."

"That's...actually not a terrible idea," the mayor replied, cracking open the bottle of Quantum and filling the rest of the glass with it. He swirled the mixture around until the pills dissolved before handing it to Deacon. "Here. A couple sips of this, and you'll be calmer than a corpse in no time."

Deacon sniffed at the unholy concoction, grimacing. "Is this safe?" he asked.

"Hell, I don't know," Hancock said with a laugh. "But it sure as hell works. I've been perfecting it for a few months now. I call it Sunshine because it makes you feel all warm and safe and shit. Tastes like the wrong end of a radroach, but other than that, it does the trick."

Deacon wasn't thrilled about the idea of taking experimental chems from a man who literally ghoulified himself to get high. The spy had vowed years ago that his chem-abusing days were behind him, getting his highs from danger and self-loathing instead. That was way healthier. But, honestly, the idea of not giving a shit about anything for a few hours sounded pretty good. Maybe if Deacon could clear his mind of all these conflicting emotions, he'd be able to see a way forward. Even if that didn't work, at least he wouldn't have to worry about Myra, the Railroad, or anything else for a while. Before his mind could talk him out of it, Deacon plugged his nose with one hand and knocked back the glass.

"Holy shit!" Hancock cried. "Easy, brother! I said a couple sips, not the whole damn thing! Oh, crap," the mayor continued, his voice trailing off as the world suddenly got all...floaty. "Deacon, come on, you...easy...damn it…"

The spy couldn't understand Hancock any more, but he didn't exactly care. He smiled sleepily as he drifted off, his mind a beautiful kaleidoscope of colors as he lay back against the couch. A warm softness took hold of him, wrapping Deacon in a blanket of pure light. Within moments, he was past the point of caring about anything.

* * *

Deacon lay on his back in a field of surprisingly green grass, staring up at a clear, blue sky. He smiled sleepily as he felt the warm rays of the sun on his face, and stretched lazily. There was a clean, delicate smell in the air, like gentle florals mixed with hot summer grass. It was so soothing, so familiar, even though he was certain that he'd never experienced the scent before. He blinked a few times before realizing that his glasses were missing. Normally, he would have panicked at being so exposed, but honestly, he couldn't really bring himself to care either way.

He heard a familiar laugh nearby, and the sound spurred him to sit up. Deacon glanced around, trying to make sense of where he was. The field he was in was vast, bordered in the distance by a lush forest. Somewhere out of the range of his sight, running water babbled and played. There were no structures of any kind save for a white wicker table resting at the crest of a rolling hill. There were several chairs around the table, two of which were occupied. At this distance, he couldn't make out the features of the figures seated there, though they seemed familiar to him. One wore a long blue dress, loose, wavy blonde hair drifting about in the gentle breeze. The other wore a shorter green number, her chestnut brown hair pulled into a tight bun. Deacon wandered closer, his bare feet caressed by the soft grass as he climbed the hill. As he drew nearer, the two women turned to look at him, and he realized with a jolt who they were.

"Look who's finally awake," Barbara mused with a warm smile. "We thought you were going to sleep all day."

Myra laughed warmly, gesturing to a basket on the table. "We thought we were going to have to eat without you. Come, sit."

Deacon's mind felt muddled. This couldn't be real. Still, as if compelled, he sat between them, smiling in spite of his confusion. Barbara rached over, taking his hand in hers. "Myra and I have been having the most lovely conversation, haven't we, dear?"

Myra nodded as she rummaged in the picnic basket, pulling all manner of delicious foods from its depths. "Barb has such a great sense of humor," she said. "No wonder you love her."

Deacon frowned. "Myra, your hair…"

She laughed. "Like it? I know it's a simple style, but it keeps it out of the way."

"No," he continued, "I meant that it's not white."

"Of course not, silly," Myra said, handing him the heel of a warm loaf of bread. "I'm not that old."

"Are you sure you're feeling all right, Alex?" Barbara asked, her hazel eyes concerned.

Deacon's heart raced. How long had it been since anyone had called him by his name? "I'm not sure," he managed. "What are we doing here?"

Barbara squeezed his hand tighter, her nimble fingers soft against his skin. "We're having a picnic, of course. This was your idea, remember?"

"I can't say that I do," he replied.

Myra sighed. "You're always so preoccupied, it's no wonder you forgot. What are we going to do with you?"

Barbara giggled. "I guess we just have to remind him," she said, kissing Deacon's cheek softly. "Come on, sweetheart. You promised that you'd forget about work today and just spend time with your family."

"But I...Myra's not…I mean, I remember this," Deacon managed. "But it wasn't like this. Myra wasn't here. And it wasn't nearly this beautiful out."

"I think someone drank more wine than we thought, Barb," Myra joked, though her smile didn't make it to her eyes. "Of course I'm here. Look at me. I'm right next to you." She placed a hand on his thigh, gently stroking it. "I know you're stressed out, but now you're just being hurtful."

Deacon tried to protest, tried to tell them that there must be some mistake, but the words just wouldn't come. Instead, he just sighed heavily, doing his best to relax. He had to be dreaming. At least he could try to enjoy it while it was happening. He could feel guilty when he woke up, if he had to. He tore into the bread, relaxing slightly as the familiar mineral taste of razorgrain flour filled his mouth.

Barbara shook her head at him. "You should wait, hun," she said. "It's rude to eat before everyone's here."

Deacon frowned, eyeing the remaining empty chair. "Who else are we expecting?"

A loud whistle pierced the air, and Myra looked towards the forest, smiling warmly. "It looks like Soph's back," she said, waving to someone in the distance. The figure waved back, dashing towards them.

"Who's Soph?" Deacon asked as he watched the person draw closer.

Myra looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "Don't tell me you forgot about your own kid," she said. "Did you hit your head?"

"But I don't...we never were able to have children," he murmured, looking to Barbara for help.

She sighed. "You're still having those awful nightmares, aren't you?" she asked. "About me being a synth? I told you, they're just dreams. They aren't real."

"They...aren't?" Deacon asked, trying to sort out his conflicting thoughts. He wanted to believe what he was seeing, that Barbara was alive, that they were living happily, that they had a daughter of their own. But in his heart he knew that this was all an elaborate fantasy. This idyllic place, the two people he cared most about by his side...it was a beautiful dream. Nothing more. This wasn't his reality. And it certainly wasn't the life he deserved.

"Daddy, are you okay?" asked a soft voice. He turned, his eyes meeting a pair of startling emerald green ones. The girl who stood before him was about eight or nine, if he had to guess, with a mess of ginger curls framing her heart-shaped face. A smattering of freckles spilled across her round cheeks, giving her an impish look.

"Your father just had one of his nightmares, Sophie," Barbara replied.

"Again?" the girl exclaimed, pulling her chair out and sitting at the table. "Poor daddy."

Myra chuckled, making up a plate for the child. "Its okay, Soph. We all have bad dreams sometimes. It doesn't mean the nightmares are real."

Sophie nodded, shooting Deacon a toothy grin. "He always makes things harder for himself, doesn't he?"

Barbara laughed, making a sandwich for herself. "He always has." She turned to Deacon. "Alex, dear, you should eat more. You're so pale."

Deacon nodded, trying to ignore how strange this entire situation was as he continued eating his bread. He wanted to accept the good that was in front of him, to enjoy these precious moments even if they weren't real. He looked across the table at Sophie - this adorable young girl who was supposedly his - watching her every movement. Here and there, he caught sight of one of his mannerisms in her, and it startled and amazed him. He'd wanted children so badly back in those naive days when he and Barbara had vowed to spend their lives together. Things had seemed so simple, then, so full of hope. But who he was now, the man he'd become...how could such joy belong to him? His heart twinged every time Sophie looked at him, her smile exposing soft dimples on her cheeks. Perhaps Alex deserved to have a family of his own. But Deacon certainly didn't. It was for the best that this was just a dream.

Myra kicked him lightly under the table. "She's not gonna grow up if you take your eyes off of her for a single second, you know," she teased. "Relax, Deeks. We have all the time in the world to be a family."

He frowned at this. What did she mean? He cared for Myra, this much was undeniably true, but for her to call them family? Even his subconscious couldn't believe that, could it? He looked to Barbara, who shot him that easy, comforting smile he missed so much. "You shouldn't be so afraid, sweetheart," she murmured. "Things change. That's what they do. It's okay for things to be lost. It makes finding them in the end even better, don't you think?"

"She's right, you know," Myra replied. "We're all together now, and that's what matters."

Sophie nodded, munching on a piece of tarberry crostata. The red juice from the berries rand own her chin, staining her pale skin. Without thinking, Deacon reached out with a cloth napkin, wiping her face. She grimaced at his ministrations, but allowed him to continue. "I can clean up after myself, daddy," she muttered. "I'm not a baby."

"I guess you're not," he replied, and she flashed an impish grin at him, stealing the last few bites of bread from his plate and shoving them into her mouth. "Hey!" Deacon cried. "I wasn't finished with that!"

Myra sighed. "Soph, don't tease your father. We want him to stay with us, don't we?"

The girl rolled her mischievous green eyes. "Yeah, but he left himself wide open, momma! What was I supposed to do, pass up a chance like that?"

Deacon's heart raced as he heard Sophie's declaration. "Myra," he murmured, his eyes wide, "she's…no. That can't be right. You'd never...we'd never..." He shook his head. "This isn't real. None of this is real."

"Shh!" Barbara chided, handing him a fresh piece of bread. "Relax. Eat."

"I'm not hungry," he retorted.

"Eat!" Myra chimed in, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Don't be rude, Deacon. We spent so long preparing this for you."

Deacon relented, taking another bite of bread. There was a bitter aftertaste to it this time, like the yeast had gone off. He tried to shake his growing dread, to bring his mind back to a calm place, but it was a losing battle. There were too many impossibilities. For how real everything seemed to his senses, he could feel a growing dread setting into his bones.

It wasn't real. Deacon vaguely remembered being at Hancock's, taking...something. This was just a drug trip. As he struggled to remember what had brought him to this place, the air seemed to grow bitter cold around him. The bite of bread turned to mold in his mouth, and he spat it out in horror. The food on the table had all decayed similarly, rotten meat and mold-covered fruit oozing strange juices as they leaked off the sides of the discolored wicker. He whimpered in alarm, his eyes fixed on a large, pus-yellow spider that crawled out from the pile, waving its spindly, needle-like legs slowly in the air. He didn't dare look up, didn't dare to make eye contact with the three figures sitting next to him.

"How sad," a voice that was almost Myra's rasped. "He's gone and ruined this, too."

"When will he learn?" a ghastly, child-like whisper asked, Sophie's voice distorted and hollow.

"So many years on this earth, and still, he suffers," Barbara replied, her voice choked back in her throat like it was being swallowed by the grave itself. "There's nothing we can do, if he won't do it himself."

"We did our best," not-Myra mused. "But for a liar, he doesn't like lies much."

"He's a hypocrite," the child whispered. "Maybe he does deserve this."

Deacon shuddered, now trying to look up, needing to see the truth. But it was like he was paralyzed, unable to see anything beyond the horrible, pungent decay before him, beyond the massive spider-thing which he now realized had far too many legs. The terrible monstrosity skittered towards him, and he struggled in vain as it clambered onto his torso, heavy and cold as ice through his tattered shirt. He tried to scream, but he couldn't muster a sound, couldn't turn away, couldn't do more than hyperventilate and watch as the horrible spider-thing climbed ever higher, its face shifting and contorting as it called to him with a thousand human-like screams.

Suddenly, its fangs sank into his neck, icy needles piercing straight through his jugular. Deacon gurgled in inexpressible terror as the legs of his chair gave out from under him. He found himself plummeting into an endless abyss of putrid darkness, the laughter of the three creatures who had played with him echoing in his ears as he fell into nothingness.

* * *

Deacon's own screams jolted him awake, and his eyes opened almost impossibly wide as he sat up, gasping frantically. Hancock loomed over him, shaking him gently. "Hey, brother," the ghoul soothed, his pitch black eyes filled with concern. "Hey. It's okay. You're fine. Just a bad trip."

"I…" Deacon gasped, struggling to slow his breathing. "What the hell is in that stuff?" he wheezed.

Hancock sighed, handing him a glass of water. "I told you, you weren't supposed to take that much. I haven't tested it out at larger doses yet, and even still, my metabolism's way faster than yours. I'm thrilled you're not dead. Last thing I need is you ODing on my couch. That would not win me any good ghoul points from your boss."

Deacon swallowed the water greedily, his throat sore as hell. "Remind me not to take any more of your chem experiments," he moaned. "Or any chems at all, really. That...sucked."

"Outside of the obvious," the mayor said, "how are you feeling?"

"Oh, me?" Deacon asked sarcastically. "I'm fine. Never been better. Heck, we should go bowling. I'll be the pins."

"That bad, huh?" Hancock asked. "Well, I can't give you anything else for the pain, not until the Sunshine's left your system. Like I said, I'm not keen on you ODing on my couch. But while you were flying high, I did make some soup. Chem-free, I promise," he added. "It's probably long cold by now, but I can reheat it if you're hungry."

"Food sounds...ugh," Deacon muttered, his stomach heaving as the taste of mold and filth filled his mouth again. "Yeah, not like the best plan right now. I'll stick with water."

The mayor shook his head. "Man, that must have been a hell of a trip."

"How long was I out?" Deacon asked.

"Hmm," Hancock mused, looking out the window. "Maybe half a day or so? I donno, man, time's pretty much optional as far as I'm concerned. Sun's nearly down, though, if that means anything to you."

Deacon struggled to stand, though a flood of wooziness quickly forced him back onto the couch. "Ugh. That long? It felt like a few minutes at most."

"Like I said," Hancock replied, "time's a funny bitch who doesn't play by anyone's rules. Better not to let her run your life. Still, I'm sorry if that's not the answer you wanted."

The spy shook his head, wincing as pain flooded his head. "It's not your fault. I guess it was just one of those days."

"You have days like this often?" Hancock asked.

"It's been known to happen," Deacon joked. "One time, I woke up in a Deathclaw nest with three baby 'Claws. Seems like the momma Deathclaw mistook me for one of her own. She kept fawning over me and everything. Now that was a rough day. At least I got free meat out of it. And some terrifying new siblings."

The ghoul laughed. "That's what I like about you Deacon. You're a lying bastard, but somehow, I always want to believe you anyway."

"That's my charm," the spy replied with a pained grin. "Hell, when Myra takes over the Commonwealth, maybe I can talk her into making me her jester. I'd look awesome in one of those outfits, right?"

Hancock struggled to breathe through his wheezing cackles. "Man, I'd hire you myself, if Fahrenheit ever retires. But speaking of Myra," he continued, gasping, "you wanted to find her?"

Deacon nodded. "Have you heard from her?"

The ghoul sighed. "I'm not sure I should tell you this, but she did swing by a few days ago. Said she was on her way to the Castle, something about checking in with the Minutemen. I talked her into staying for a few nights, since she seemed pretty broken up about something. Wouldn't tell me what, but that's her business anyway. Something happen between you two?"

Deacon frowned. "What makes you say that?"

"Well," Hancock said with a sigh, "It could be the fact that you both had that same look about you, like someone punted your cat off a roof. Hell, maybe it's because you were screaming her name when you were out. Maybe it's just my intuition." he laughed. "Hell, you don't have to tell me. Not my business anyway."

The spy sighed. "If you must know, we had a bit of a fight over the value of some of the junk in her collection. Sometimes, I swear, she's a crow with how much shiny stuff she hoards. She didn't appreciate that I told her to throw out all those dog bowls that were weighing her down."

Hancock grinned. "I hear you. Who even needs eighty screwdrivers? And not even the fun kind, with vodka, but the metal kind."

"Right?" Deacon snickered. "I probably could have been nicer about it, though. I sometimes forget there's feelings under all that warrior woman stuff she's got going on these days." At least that part wasn't a lie. God, he'd screwed up. How could he face her, after the way he'd treated her? Even if it was for the best, he could have been more tactful.

The ghoul nodded. "As the world's expert on the fine and often forgotten art of seduction, I can freely tell you, yeah, you messed up."

Deacon groaned. "First of all, gross. Second, I wasn't...I mean, I'd never…"

Hancock eyed him incredulously. "Right. A woman like that, and you haven't even thought about it? Yeah, and I'm a hot pink vertibird. You're lying to the wrong ghoul, Deacon. I can smell heartache a mile away, and you, my man, are marinating in it. So what's the deal, she turn you down too?"

"You mean you actually…" Deacon smirked. "So much for the master of seduction."

"Hey, I do all right!" Hancock protested. "And it wasn't like that. I mean, yeah, I maybe suggested...but only 'cause she seemed so upset, you know? But she's all hung up on that tin can of hers, unless you know something I don't."

Deacon tried not to think about the hot desperation in her kiss, the way she moaned against him as he explored her body. It was all an act, a game they were playing. It hadn't been real, and it never could be. "Yeah," he joked. "Not like Danse would know what to do with a woman if she came with an instruction manual. It's pretty hopeless."

"Poor Myra," Hancock agreed with a laugh. "I guess there's still hope for the rest of us, then."

Deacon sighed. Maybe there was hope for someone like Hancock. He had a roguish charm that seemed to endear people to him, and what's more, the ghoul had the sincerity to back it up. He might be a junkie, but he had a good heart. Deacon couldn't say the same for himself. "Yeah," he said, hoping his smile seemed more sincere than it felt. "Maybe."

Hancock grinned, slapping the spy lightly on the shoulder. "Well, now you know where she went, so I'm sure you'll want to go after her. But if you don't mind taking my advice, maybe you should stay here until the Sunshine's out of your system. Don't want you gettin' any strange side-effects out there on the road."

"That's fair," Deacon replied. "Besides, I probably don't need to go see her. I mostly wanted to make sure she was alive. Now that I know she's okay, I should really get back to my mission."

The ghoul frowned, his deep inky eyes narrowing. "Are you sure that's a good idea? Look, I donno what you did, and I really don't wanna know. But if you made her upset, brother, you've gotta apologize. Things have a way of gettin' worse if you let 'em fester. Just ask my missing toe. You gotta make things right."

"Or, you know, I can just run away and bury myself in work. That's a great solution, too," Deacon said. "Works like a charm, and it keeps me productive. It's a win-win."

Hancock sighed. "Whatever. I'm not your Miss Nanny. You wanna do that, go right ahead. But you gotta be willin' to live with the consequences. This life we've got's full of choices, my man, and not a lot of do-overs. Just think about that." He grabbed a tin of Mentats off the table, popping a few in his mouth. "I'm too sober for this," he muttered. "Do what you want."

Deacon lay back down on the couch with a huff, trying to hold on to any train of thought he could...well, any train that didn't involve Myra. He didn't even want to think about the choice before him, especially not in light of his drug-fueled vision. The last thing he needed was to see her smiling face, or to hear the voice of a child that didn't exist. His mind was a mysterious and often twisted web of lies and fantastical musings. This was just another of the cruel tricks he played on himself. Nothing more.

The spy liked to pretend that there wasn't much that scared him in the world. And perhaps that was true, in a way. The things that really horrified him lurked in the dark recesses of his own being, not outside of himself. And if he had to single out the one thing that filled him with the most dread, it was the idea that his view of reality was wrong, that all the lies he'd told and internalized and believed at the time he needed to believe them had muddled his perception of the world as it was. If he couldn't trust his own mind, his own senses, there was nothing in this world he could rely on. What if all the lies had finally snuffed out the truth like a cap over a candle, leaving behind nothing but smoke and the faint odor of a forgotten reality?

Deacon exhaled slowly, trying to calm the guilt and unease that filled him. He had to be rational about this. After all, he was still under the influence of the drug. The last thing he needed was a panic attack. The urge to run away from the situation was intense, as it always was. The spy was a coward. He had no illusions about that. But Hancock was right. For once in his miserable life, Deacon needed to consider the consequences of inaction just as much as he agonized over the consequences of action.

Was it really better to leave things with Myra as they were, to drive her away when he'd spent so long trying to bring her into the fold? Regardless of his personal feelings for her, he still believed that she could be the force for change that the Railroad needed. Was he willing to throw away all their futures just because he might have let himself catch feelings?

"Damn it, I'm really going to have to go after her, aren't I?" Deacon moaned.

Hancock wheezed contentedly beside him, his eyes glazed over. "Yeah, that's what I'm saying. But it can wait. She's not goin' anywhere, right? Try an' get some sleep."

The spy nodded. "I'll try."

Just as he was about to drift off, however, loud and angry voices filled the night. Hancock groaned in frustration. "Damn it, what is it this time?"

The door to the living room flew open, and Irma rushed in, blood coating her corset. "Hancock! You've gotta do something!"

The men both sat up straight, staring at the madame of the _Memory Den_. "What is it, Irma?" Hancock asked, all peace drained from his face. "What's goin' on?"

"I tried to stop them," Irma gasped. "I told them we weren't helping the Institute, but they...there were so many of them! It must have been half the town."

"Easy," Hancock commanded gently. "What happened? What did those idiots do?"

"It's Doctor Amari," she said breathily, her face clammy and pale with shock. "She's been shot."

* * *

_**A/N: **_**_Well, that was...a thing that happened. I promise, Deacon won't always have such a bad time. He does have some moments of happiness. Really!_**

**_Can you tell that I write eldritch horror novels when I'm not working on fanfiction? I hope that wasn't too rough for you guys._**

**_Yes, I did name the drug Sunshine after Hancock's pet name for the Sole Survivor, because I like to imagine that being around her gives him the same feeling as being on the drug. Remember, a small dose is pleasant. It's the larger quantities that lead to horrible nonsense. (To be fair, I guess that's Myra as well.)_**


	4. The Refuge

**4\. The Refuge**

**_Paladin Danse gives Myra time to think about taking the Oath by taking her to a remote cabin._**

* * *

Paladin Danse stood on the battlements of the Castle, looking off towards the airport. The _Prydwen_ looked absolutely gorgeous in the early morning light, the violets and reds of another Commonwealth sunrise reflected in her steely exterior, giving the airship the illusion of being birthed by fire. He had always loved the design of her, at once both regal and powerful. It reminded him of Arthur Maxson himself, he realized, which made sense. He supposed the ship was an extension of his friend, in a way. Larger than life, intimidating, and yet somehow comforting at the same time.

Danse sighed. He wondered how things were going back at the airport. When he'd left, he had initially planned on returning with Myra as soon as she was able to travel. They had work to complete. But now, knowing how much she was struggling, he couldn't bring himself to force her to return. At least not until she'd decided to support the Brotherhood above all other factions. Bringing her back as an unknown variable was just asking for her execution, and Danse would risk just about anything to prevent that.

"Homesick already, Danse?" Myra called from behind him, and he turned to look at her. She hobbled forward defiantly, bracing herself against the wrought iron railing, her shoulder-length hair unkempt. Myra was doing her best to put on a brave front, but it was clear that she was still in considerable pain.

"You should be recuperating in bed," the Paladin chided her, "not climbing stairs."

Myra groaned as she continued making her way to his side. "That's boring. Besides, I'm never going to get better if I don't push myself."

Danse closed the distance between them, offering her his arm. "Push yourself too much, Larimer, and you'll never leave that bed again. Did Ignatius clear you, or have you decided to be insubordinate?"

She chuckled weakly, coughing. "In case you forgot, Danse, I'm the General. I literally have no one to be insubordinate to."

"That's erroneous," he muttered. "You and I both know that Ignatius gets the final say as long as your body is recovering. So can you walk back to your room, or do you require my assistance?"

Myra sighed heavily. "In a bit. Is it really too much for me to ask to watch the sunrise with you? I've been cooped up for weeks!"

Danse relented. "Very well. But unless you wish to remain on bed rest indefinitely, Larimer, you really ought to let your body heal."

She nodded, leaning gently against his armor-plated side. "I know. I was just worried about you."

The Paladin's eyes widened. "About me? Why?"

"You've been acting… I don't know, strange lately?" Myra said. "Like something's bothering you, more than just what we've talked about. I guess I just wanted to make sure that you're still okay with giving me time to think."

Danse sighed. "You have the right to make your own choices. I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," she soothed. "But you shouldn't have to. I don't want to put you through something that's going to make you miserable. If you need to go back to the airport without me, then I want you to do that."

Danse's heart ached at her words. How could she even dream of him leaving her when she was in trouble, or think that being by her side made him miserable? He knew he wasn't the best at expressing his feelings, but he had hoped that Myra would have at least realized by now that he was happiest when he was by her side. But he couldn't tell her that. To admit how he felt, even a little, might cost them both everything. "I'm still your sponsor," he said finally. "My place is right here."

Myra's face fell slightly, but she covered it up with a charming smile so quickly that Danse almost thought he'd imagined it. "As long as that's what you want," she said. "The last thing I want to do is to push you away." She sighed, looking up at the _Prydwen_ as well. "Although I might not have a choice, in the end."

The Paladin frowned. "What do you mean, Larimer?"

"I really do want to believe that the Brotherhood cares about the people of the Commonwealth," Myra continued, her eyes tracing the gentle curve of the airship's bow. "I know that our first priority is protecting people from technology, but...I'm not sure that's the kind of salvation people are looking for. Are we...is the Brotherhood of Steel really doing what's in the best interest for the people down here on the ground, Danse?"

Danse thought for a moment, his brow furrowed. He'd admit, his mind had been troubled by similar concerns in the past, especially when the _Prydwen_ was first constructed. He knew the airship was vital to the Brotherhood's mission, but watching the engineers rip the power core out of Rivet City had alarmed him. In a lot of ways, the old aircraft carrier had been his first real home, and even though the Brotherhood had replaced the power plant with the less efficient model they'd been using on the airship before, the method of seizure had still bothered him.

Still, he had to believe that the Brotherhood's mission was noble, that Arthur Maxson really did care about the everyday people under his protection. Though the young Elder's methods sometimes lacked finesse, Arthur was a good man at heart. Danse knew that better than anyone. Maxson simply couldn't afford to be sentimental with the eyes of the Council fixated on him constantly. If only he could make Myra understand that as well.

"It all depends on what it means to keep humanity safe from the abuse of technology," Danse said finally. "Every Elder seems to have his own idea of what that means. Arthur, for instance, believes that we have to understand technology in order to find the aspects of it that are harmful. Since he became Elder, we've adapted a great deal of pre-War technology that others would have simply stored away to gather dust. And unlike many other Elders, he insists on trading food and medicine for the technology we acquire, rather than taking it by force."

"The fact that Maxson's policies are exceptions to the rule shows an inherent flaw in the system," Myra countered. "Those rules should be the starting point, not the exception. What's the point in having all of these advanced systems if everyone isn't benefiting from them?"

Danse sighed. "Now you're beginning to sound like Elder Lyons," he replied. "He was Arthur's mentor, and an extremely good man. But his idealistic and overly-generous policies weakened the Brotherhood in the East. We almost didn't survive. If certain outside individuals hadn't intervened on our behalf...well, we would have lost everything to the Enclave, a ruthless group who sought to destroy everyone living in the Capital Wasteland. So you see, Elder Maxson has had to walk a delicate line between genuinely wanting to help people and having to keep the Brotherhood strong. It's not an easy path to follow. You, as a leader, should understand that."

Myra's brow furrowed. "I suppose. Just...are we really the good guys if we don't respect people's freedom?"

The Paladin looked down at her dubiously. "How do you define freedom, Larimer? Where does it stop, and anarchy begin? Look at your Minutemen, for example." He gestured down at the courtyard below, where Preston was running drills with the newest recruits. "They claim to stand for freedom, but I've asked your Lieutenants, and none of them can agree on what exactly freedom means. To Mr. Stern, it means not being under someone else's thumb. Miss Davis says that it's being able to do whatever you want. Those are very different concepts."

"I think it's the very nature of freedom to be nebulous," Myra retorted. "It means different things to different people."

Danse nodded. "That's a fair assessment. However, I think that there's a key component missing in the way most people view freedom, and that is responsibility. Being free to self-determine is all well and good, but every individual then is responsible for using that freedom in a way which benefits those around them, or at least doesn't cause them harm. Raiders claim to also believe in freedom, but they murder people and keep slaves. Freedom without responsibility...that's the problem. The Brotherhood of Steel does respect freedom. We just also accept that there are limits to how freedom can and should be expressed."

"But that has its own dangers," Myra said. "Limiting people's freedom too much leads to tyranny, and from what I've heard, many people already see Elder Maxson as a tyrant. Now, I know him, and I know that isn't who he is, but I can understand why people believe that."

"I'm sure Arthur would rather be seen as a tyrant than have the Commonwealth descend even further into anarchy," the Paladin said cooly.

"Those aren't the only options!" Myra exclaimed. "That's why the Minutemen are important. We're a militia of private citizens. Every person here is here to protect the Commonwealth, but we do it by being part of the Commonwealth first. If Maxson really wants to help, he's going to need to learn that as well."

"I'm sure he'd be pleased to discuss this with you, Larimer," Danse replied. "I know he values your conversations. But what is this really about? You're still having doubts, aren't you?"

Myra nodded. "I...I know taking the Oath will keep me safe, but what about my work here with the Minutemen? I'm barely around as it is, but they rely on me all the same. What if they fall apart without a figurehead? The Commonwealth needs the Minutemen, Danse. And I firmly believe that the Brotherhood does, too."

"I realize that it's a terrible choice to make," Danse said, pulling her just a little tighter. "And in the end, it is your choice. I'll do everything I can to protect you if you decide not to take the Oath."

"I appreciate that, Danse," she said softly. "I really do. But I can't ask you to risk your position for me. It's all you care about."

The Paladin's heart clenched at her words. Yes, his position was important to him. But it certainly wasn't all he cared about. Couldn't she see that? "You're wrong. I care about -"

"General!" cried Preston from below, cutting Danse off. "It's good to see you up and about! Are you feeling better?"

Myra waved to the Colonel, grinning down at him. "Much, thank you!"

"That's great news!" the Colonel continued. "Do you think you're up to lead the Commissioning? We were waiting for you to recover before we handed out the new assignments."

She nodded. "I'll be right down!"

Danse frowned as he looked her over. Myra was compensating well, but her skin was still so pale and clammy, her eyes still shrouded in dark bags. Even as she tried to put on a brave face, he could see her fingers trembling. She may be finally a few steps away from death's door, but she certainly hadn't left death's neighborhood. "Are you certain you're adequately healed for this?" he asked. "You seem exhausted."

Myra bit her lower lip, looking away from him. "I...I have a responsibility to the Minutemen, Danse. If I'm really going to leave them behind, I have to be there for them while I can be."

"I suppose you're right," he replied. "But if you need my assistance, I can at least get you to the stage."

Myra chuckled. "I think you just want an excuse to hold me again," she teased.

Danse could feel his ears burning, and he sighed. "Hardly."

"Well, I guess I wouldn't mind it if you did," she mused. "Just as long as you don't mind my men giving you a hard time."

"People have been tormenting me my entire life, Larimer," Danse said, hoisting her up in his arms. "If you think that is going to deter me from ensuring your safety, you still have quite a lot to learn about me."

She clung to the handles on the torso of his power armor and leaned backwards before flashing the Paladin a grin that threatened to melt him like plasma fire. "I look forward to learning everything about you, Danse," she murmured.

His blush deepened, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. "If you're quite finished," he muttered, "I'd prefer it if you'd remain still. I don't want to lose my footing on the stairs."

Myra nodded, tucking herself tightly against his torso. Danse tried not to think about how much better this would feel without his power armor in the way as he carried her down to the courtyard. The past few weeks had led to many moments of closeness between them as he sat by her bedside, helping her eat and listening to her stories of life before the Great War. It was getting harder for him to remain detached, to put his duty as a Brotherhood soldier before his feelings for her. Part of him didn't mind. It was wonderful just to spend those moments by her side. But at the same time, he knew all too well the dangers of becoming too dependent on another person for his happiness.

Danse's mind filled with thoughts of Sarah Lyons, the valiant young Sentinel who had been Arthur Maxson's life. She was the strongest and bravest soldier Danse had ever known, and she had been cut down in battle just months after becoming Elder. There was nothing that anyone could have done to save her, he knew, but her death had been a turning point for him and Arthur alike. It was the first time that either of them had truly realized how easy it was for everything to change in an instant, for even the strongest to fall without any warning. And while her death had sobered the young and optimistic Knight Danse had been, it had nearly destroyed Squire Maxson. Danse couldn't bear the thought of going through what his friend had, of losing the woman who gave his life more meaning than anything had before.

Myra was like Sarah in all the wrong ways. She had the same impulsivity, the same charisma that made people rally to her, the same destiny-driven fire. But she lacked Sarah's discipline, her experience. In many ways, Myra was constantly tempting fate by the way she lived and acted. It was a miracle she hadn't died yet, and every day, Danse feared that she was closing in on the battle that would finally seal her doom.

Danse knew in his heart that he wasn't strong enough to lose her. The closer they got, the more in love with Myra he found himself, the more terrified he became of her death. How could he endure if she wasn't there by his side? Losing a best friend in Cutler had been hard enough. Danse couldn't imagine how much worse it would be to lose someone he loved even more. What if he wasn't able to protect her? Could he ever forgive himself for failing her? Could he ever forgive her for leaving him behind?

Myra shifted in his arms, clearing her throat so loudly that the Paladin nearly dropped her in shock. "Um, Danse," she teased softly, "we can go now."

He realized then that his feet had been frozen at the top of the stairs, and he blushed furiously as he tried to banish his fears from his mind. "I'm sorry," he muttered, hoping that she wouldn't ask him what he'd been thinking about. Fortunately, Myra seemed to be in a forgiving mood, as she simply nodded and let it go. Danse carried her carefully down the steps, cradling her in his arms like she was the most precious treasure in the world. To him, after all, she was.

Once he reached the stage, Danse gently lowered Myra into a chair next to the podium. "Would you like me to stay by your side?" he asked softly.

Myra shook her head. "This is Minutemen business, Danse," she replied. "I'm not sure it would look right for a Brotherhood Paladin to be assisting me during the ceremony. Preston will help me from here. But after...if you wouldn't mind meeting me in my room, I'm going to need your help."

Danse nodded. "I'll wait for you there, then," he replied harsher than he intended. "Don't overexert yourself, Larimer."

Myra nodded, smiling gently up at him. "I'll do my best," she murmured.

It was difficult for Danse to leave her, even knowing that he would see her again soon. He understood why she sent him away, of course. While tensions between the Brotherhood and the Minutemen were mild at the moment, he knew that his presence at the Castle had already caused a bit of a stir in the lower ranks, especially with Quartermaster Shaw. The old woman had been particularly outspoken in objection to Danse's presence in the fort, and had gained the ear of more of Myra's men than the Paladin was comfortable with. He wasn't certain if Myra had heard the rumors or not, but he was certain that she was doing her best to make a clear statement that the Minutemen and the Brotherhood were still separate entities.

Danse eased the door of the General's quarters open with a heavy sigh. Myra's fears for the Minutemen were more justified than he'd cared to admit to her. Many of the settlers under Minuteman protection adored Myra, often to the point of worship. She was a symbol of everything the people of the Commonwealth stood for, a mother willing to go to war with the Commonwealth's greatest enemy in order to save her son. She was a reminder of the past, a voice crying out for a better future. And the people listened to her voice, joining it with their own. If Myra stepped down, would the Minutemen still fight? Without a rallying point, would things return to the way they had been, the Minutemen reduced to little more than a group of feuding lords in charge of their own sectors? It seemed more than likely. In Danse's experience, people needed a strong leader. Without one, even the best-intentioned movements tended to fall apart.

Danse eased out of his power armor, flopping down on Myra's bed and staring blankly at the ceiling. For the hundredth time since he'd suggested that Myra take the Oath of Fidelity to the Brotherhood, the Paladin tried to come up with an alternate solution. He knew asking her to commit herself fully to the Brotherhood was the best way to save her life. But at the same time, if everyone else she cared about suffered because of her decision, would Myra ever forgive herself? Was Danse truly looking out for her best interests, or was he merely too terrified of losing her that he'd ask her to sacrifice her happiness in order to save her life? Maybe it was better if she fled, if she abandoned the Brotherhood. Danse would never be able to see her again without being forced to kill her himself, but at least she would be free.

Myra wasn't like him. She wasn't a born soldier. She questioned orders, fought for what she believed even when it wasn't practical. Danse doubted if she'd be able to see the oath as anything more than a heavy chain of servitude. Part of him feared that she would come to hate him in time, should she take the Oath. Was he being selfish, hoping that she would choose to stay by his side?

As his thoughts grew more and more troubled, Danse felt his eyelids grow heavy. Before he realized it, the world around him faded away, his only thoughts of Myra and the cruelty of the fates that guided her journey. He wasn't certain how much time passed in this manner, but before he knew it, he heard the creaking of the heavy wooden door and a bright, familiar chuckle from the entrance to the room.

"Well, I won't say that's an unwelcome sight," Myra joked as she hobbled into her quarters. "Hell, I'd definitely stay in bed all day if there was always a handsome man keeping it warm for me."

Danse blushed, sitting up abruptly. "I...er...I'm sorry. I must have been more exhausted than I realized."

Myra laughed. "Relax, Danse. I'm not here to scold you. I came to pack. Think you could help me?"

Danse frowned. "You're planning on going somewhere?"

"Well, as long as that offer still stands," she said, a hint of darkness behind her emerald eyes. "I already told Preston that we're leaving."

"In your condition?" the Paladin replied in concern. "I thought we were going to remain at the Castle until you were fully healed."

"Change of plans," Myra hissed, clutching her side. "I can't stay here any longer, not if I want to make a clear decision. It's not saf...um, I mean, I can't think clearly when I'm surrounded by people who refuse to see me as myself and not just the General."

Danse caught her slight wrist gently in his hand. "Larimer, did something happen?"

She shook her head, pulling away from him. "Nothing I didn't expect."

The Paladin frowned. "That's hardly an answer."

"I…" Myra sighed. "I really don't want to talk about it, Danse. I just want to go before I do something I'll regret."

Danse looked her over carefully. Something had clearly aggravated Myra. He'd rarely seen her this upset. But the Paladin wasn't the type of man to push her beyond what she was comfortable disclosing. If Myra really didn't want to talk about it, he'd wait for her to tell him when she was ready. "Very well," he replied. "But please, lie down. Just tell me what you need, and I'll pack it for you."

"Well, for starters, I'm going to need underwear," she said with a forced laugh. "Top drawer."

Danse tried not to think too much as he picked a selection of panties from Myra's dresser. He wasn't particularly accustomed to handling women's undergarments, after all. He tried to tell himself that they were just clothes, and simply shoved a few pairs in the bottom of Myra's pack and moved on. Socks and pants were a little easier to deal with, and by the time it came to shirts, he had no trouble grabbing a few tank tops for her to wear under her flannel.

"I'm going to need fusion cells," Myra continued, "and let's make sure to pack Maxson's notebook. I'd hate for anyone to stumble across it."

Danse nodded, filling her pack with ammunition. "I'll bring enough rations for a few days," he said. "Do you have any particular requests?"

Myra pointed to a box near the top of her shelves. "There's water and canned goods there. We can hunt along the way if we run out."

Within minutes, both of their packs were filled. Danse set the bags by the door along with their laser rifles. "Are you certain you wish to leave now?" he asked.

Myra nodded. "It's for the best. I need to clear my head, and I…" she sighed heavily. "I'm tired of everyone telling me who I'm supposed to be and how I'm supposed to behave. I just need time to be Myra Larimer again. If that makes sense."

Danse nodded. "I promise, no one will bother you where we're headed. I won't force you to make a decision until you're certain you're ready."

"See, that's why I love you, Danse," Myra replied. "You're always looking out for me."

Danse's heart raced. She...had she meant to say that? He stared at her, trying to read her face. But as was so often the case, her intentions eluded him. "Well," he said awkwardly, "I suppose I should take this note to Colonel Garvey then. And I'll need to inform Lancer-Captain Farfield that we are ready to depart." He fled the room, trying to catch his breath.

He hadn't expected to hear those words from her. Regardless of how she'd meant them, just hearing Myra say that she loved him made him come undone. He was hopeless. Worse than hopeless. Ever since he'd put a name to his attachment to Myra, he'd found it difficult to think of much else besides how much he adored her. Danse was prepared to silently carry that torch forever, but if there was even a whisper of a chance that she felt the same…

The Paladin shook his head, trying to focus. No. It didn't matter if Myra loved him or not. He had to be strong. How could he protect her if he got any more attached to her? Danse couldn't dare to hope that she cared for him as more than a friend and colleague. Even if she did, he couldn't risk acting on it. Losing her would hurt far too much. It already would hurt far too much. And besides, she clearly hadn't meant love in a romantic sense. She meant it platonically. She must have.

Danse met Preston by the radio tower. The Colonel's face fell as the Paladin handed him the signal grenade and letter. "Can you please send this letter to the Prydwen tomorrow?" Danse asked. "Give us time to be as far away as possible."

"So you really are leaving," Preston said with a heavy sigh. "I know what happened really shook the General up, but I was hoping she'd reconsider."

Danse frowned. "What exactly transpired here? Larimer seemed particularly distraught when she returned to her quarters."

Preston's dark brown eyes misted with tears. "It's...I'm sorry, Danse, but it's not really my place to tell you everything. Let's just say that some of the minutemen made some particularly...nasty comments about your relationship. Those men have been disciplined, but I'm not sure what else we can do."

Danse's eyes narrowed. He'd suspected as much, but to hear his fears confirmed was another thing entirely. "What did they say?" he growled.

"I...I don't think it'd do you any good to hear," Preston replied. "Really, just let it go."

"If they insulted Larimer," Danse retorted, "I'm not certain I can just let it go."

"If you try to do anything about it, you might start a war between our factions," the Colonel cautioned. "Please, Danse. I know neither of us want that."

The Paladin sighed. "Your assessment is correct," he muttered. "But if you care for her, I hope you didn't hesitate to defend her from slander."

"I did my best," Preston replied. "But you know how ideas and rumors can spread."

Danse nodded. "I'll call our vertibird and tell them to rendezvous with Larimer and I by the diner. She's right. We need to leave before the situation escalates. Be careful, Garvey. You're a good man. I'd hate to see anything happen to you."

"Same to you, Danse," the Colonel replied, offering the Paladin a firm handshake. "Keep her safe, okay? Don't let her out of your sight this time."

"You have my word," Danse said, heading back into the keep.

* * *

As the vertibird cut through the Commonwealth sky, Myra's attitude seemed to perk up a little. She stared in awe at the roofs of the buildings they passed, pointing out old landmarks to Danse. She tried her best to tell him what they looked like before the War, but he had a feeling that words weren't entirely sufficient to express the wonders of her memories.

"Danse! Look!" she cried. "There's what's left of St. Pete's! That was Nate's family's home parish! It used to have the most beautiful stained glass. I'll bet it's all gone now. Oh! And over there, that's the park we...um, that we got engaged in! I can't believe it's still there!"

The Paladin leaned over the edge beside her, careful to keep a hand braced against the doorframe.

"Do you want to take a closer look?" he asked. "We can land, if you wish. We're not in any particular hurry."

Myra shook her head. "I'm not...I'm not sure I'm ready to go back there yet," she murmured. "Nate's gone, but that park...I'm not ready to remember it."

Danse couldn't say that he understood her hesitation. Some part of him was almost jealous at the implication that she hadn't entirely moved on yet, but he did his best to respect her past. After all, Myra had possessed a life before that Danse could never fully understand or share with her, and while that bothered him to some degree, he also knew how important those memories were to her. They made her who she was, this magnificent woman that he loved with all his being. How could he begrudge her the past that had created her? "Very well," he said softly. "But if you change your mind, all you have to do is say so."

"I appreciate that, Danse," she said softly, a troubled edge to her voice. "Thank you."

"There's no need to thank me, Larimer," he replied. "But if you really want to repay me, then would you please come away from the edge? I'm worried that you'll fall, and you have no power armor to protect you."

Myra chuckled. "Or you could just hold on to me, you know. You wouldn't let me fall."

"I…" Danse sighed, wrapping his free arm around her gently but firmly. "I wish you'd just relent and wear armor," he muttered. "It would cause us both much less trouble in the long run."

She gripped his arm tightly from beneath. "Yeah, but I kind of like trouble."

"You certainly do have a way of surrounding yourself with it," the Paladin replied. "I just hope you don't come to regret it."

"Me too," she whispered, her voice so overpowered by the wing whipping past the open hatch that Danse almost didn't catch her words. For a long time, neither of them spoke, their eyes trained on the destroyed cityscape beneath them. There was a stark beauty to the Commonwealth from the air, and Danse gladly lost himself to it. It was easier to focus on the buildings beneath them than it was to think too much about the wounded woman wrapped tightly in his embrace, or how incredibly natural holding her was beginning to feel. He didn't want to think about the future, about what would happen when they returned to the _Prydwen_ and he could no longer hold her like this. How could he ever readjust to the way things were supposed to be, to her being his subordinate and not...whatever she'd become?

After a while, Danse felt Myra's weight shift against him, and he glanced down in panic to see her slumped over. He cried out in alarm, pulling her away from the edge. She murmured slightly as he laid her down on the vertibird's passenger seat, brushing her snowy hair out of her pale, cold face. As Danse watched over her, she shifted into a fetal position, her snores filling the cabin. So she was asleep, rather than passed out. Danse smiled in relief. Poor Myra. The pain had kept her awake most nights in the past few weeks, and it seemed like her body had finally had enough. She smiled sleepily as the Paladin gently rolled her onto her back to keep her from reinjuring her ribs, but there was no other indication that she was at all aware of the world around her.

"How much further, Farfield?" The Paladin called to the pilot of their aircraft.

"Not too much longer, sir," the young man replied. "We should be nearing Diamond City soon, and the coordinates you gave me are just on the other side of it."

"Outstanding. Let me know when we're in position." Danse stood protectively between Myra and the open hatch, his hand ready to catch her at the first sign of danger. There was something so calming about watching her sleep, the peace on her face so rarely seen when she was awake. If he could, Danse would want to burn the image into his memory forever, a reminder of what he was fighting for, what he was sacrificing for. Things could never be the same. He knew that in the deepest part of his soul. But in the end, as long as he could be by her side, he didn't particularly care. Whatever it took, he would bring her that peace as often as he could.

As the vertibird slowly descended into a sun-warmed field of brown grass, Danse hoisted the two packs onto his back. With a nod of thanks to Farfield, the Paladin pulled the sleeping Knight into his arms and bailed out, hoping not to wake her.

Fortunately, he'd underestimated how completely exhausted she was. As Danse crossed the field towards the skeletal forest to their west, Myra nuzzled tighter against his armor, and he smiled gently down at her. She seemed so small wrapped in his armored arms, her lovely face radiant in the late afternoon sun. It warmed his heart in ways he had never before experienced.

The cabin appeared, a small building of green-painted wood nestled between the trees, and Danse found himself instantly taken with it. This had been quite a find, a mostly intact cabin in the middle of nowhere. He reminded himself to thank Haylen for telling him about the place next time he saw her.

The building's interior was small, a simple kitchen and dining room separated from a sleeping area by a hastily-constructed barricade. He sighed in exasperation at the state of the sleeping area. Only one bed. Well, someone would need to be on watch at all times anyway. At least the mattress wasn't the most disgusting he'd seen. He tossed a sleeping bag on top of it just to be safe before lowering Myra onto the bed.

She clung desperately to the front of his armor, and he had to pry her hands from it in order to retreat to the kitchen. Her grip was strong, even in her sleep.

"Hey, go check on the baby," she murmured.

"I will. Don't worry," he replied, hoping it was convincing. He'd long since learned to play along when she talked in her sleep.

"You're the best, Nate," he heard as she rolled over on her side.

Danse tried to ignore the jealous twinge in his heart as she called him by her late husband's name. Would they ever be free of Nathaniel Larimer's ghost? "Sleep well, Myra," he whispered, leaving the sleeping area as quietly as possible. This wasn't the time to think about the past. If Danse wanted them to survive, he had to instead plan for the immediate future.

Now, to get their supplies in order. It was going to be a long stay. Hopefully they'd packed enough for the first few days, because he wanted Myra to rest as much as possible before they had to explore the nearby area. The last thing he wanted to do was to leave her alone and unattended when he went out on a scouting run, and it would still be a few days before she could reliably follow him.

Danse carefully placed their preserved rations on the kitchen counter, taking stock of what he'd grabbed from Myra's quarters. They had four cans of Cram, three of mixed vegetables that no longer grew in the Commonwealth, six boxes of Blamco Mac and Cheese, and two cans of dog food that would do in a pinch. Along with these humble rations were twelve cans of purified water as well as a box of snack cakes and three tubes of potato crisps. It wasn't much for a long-term food solution, but it would keep the two of them going until they were able to hunt some fresh food.

The Paladin filled one of the cabinets with the provisions before returning to the bedroom to put their clothes away. There was only one dresser, so he put Myra's clothes in the top drawer and his own in the next one down. Neither of them had packed much, but they had detergent and a steady supply of water from the nearby lake, so it wasn't hopeless. They could easily stay as long as was necessary for Myra to make up her mind.

As he prepared to leave the room again, Danse caught the sound of weeping from Myra's slumbering form. He edged closer, unsure of what to do. Should he wake her, or…

When the Paladin drew near, Myra turned to look at him with groggy, tear-stained eyes. She smiled weakly at him, wiping her tears with one hand. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "I just...I'm scared, Danse."

He frowned down at her. "Why are you afraid, Larimer?" he asked softly.

"I...can't do this, Danse," she sniffled. "I know what I need to do, what everyone needs me to do, but...I can't just pretend that I'm alright with putting down my own child."

"That's not…" Danse sighed. "You don't have to think about that now," he soothed.

Myra shook her head. "I can't not think about it. There's so much blood on my hands already, so much I've been willing to do just to find him. It feels like God is playing the worst possible joke on me, and everyone around me is just willing to let it happen!" she wailed.

Danse hated watching her cry. He was never quite sure how to handle it, although he hoped that he'd done a good job thus far. Watching her cry always made him feel so helpless, so incapable of protecting her. How could he defend her when her enemies were attacking her from within? "Pull yourself together, Larimer," the Paladin said gruffly. "I know it seems like everyone in the Commonwealth is asking the impossible of you. In fact, were you anyone else, I might believe that this task is too much for you. But you are among the strongest, bravest, and most adaptable people I've ever had the pleasure of serving with. If anyone can find a way to bring this mission to a satisfactory conclusion, it's you."

Myra struggled to sit up, her body wracked in pain from her injuries and compounded by her sobs. "Do you really believe that? Look at me, Danse. I'm not a soldier. I'm a glorified housewife just trying to survive in a world where housewives don't exist anymore. If Nate were here, maybe things would be different. But I'm not my husband. I never will be."

Danse shook his head. "No one is asking you to be your husband, Larimer."

"That's the problem!" Myra cried. "Nate...he could handle anything. I could barely handle law school, much less life in the Commonwealth. I'm a pathetic burden. I mean, look at you," she continued, gesturing to the Paladin. "You're out here with me, practically defying orders, and for what?"

Danse sighed, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I'm here because I want to be," he said simply. "And you're wrong. I'll admit, when we first met, I didn't think much of you at all. I saw exactly the woman you've described to me, a frail, lost, terrified vault dweller that would be dead within the month. But that is not who you are, even if it was who you were. That is not who you've become."

"And who exactly is that, Danse?" Myra retorted, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

"You're someone I can respect," he continued, "a sister I trust with every bone in my body. You may not have been a soldier, but you sure as hell are one now. Not only that, but I truly believe you have the capacity to be one of the best. I'm honored to be your sponsor, and, if I may, even more honored to be your friend."

Myra laughed bitterly. "Do you actually believe that, or are you just trying to make me feel better?"

"We've known each other for almost a year now," Danse replied. "Do I strike you as the sort of man who would say something like that just to make you 'feel better'?"

She chuckled weakly, her voice as bright and free as a half-forgotten melody. "Fair enough. Thanks, Danse."

"It's the truth, Larimer," the Paladin replied. He'd wanted to cheer her up, it was true, but he'd meant every word. Myra had no idea how important she was, not just to him, but to so many people. It hurt to think that she thought so little of herself.

Myra blushed slightly, her eyes turning abruptly away from him. "Hey, Danse?" she asked.

"Yes?"

Her blush deepened. "You...um, you can call me by my first name, if you want," Myra sputtered. "You're the only person I'm this close to who doesn't, and it's kind of weird at this point, don't you think?"

Danse froze, his heart pounding wildly. He wanted to oblige her. Of course he wanted to. But using Myra's first name was a line he'd only crossed on accident. To deliberately break down that boundary between them was madness. The rules he'd meticulously imposed on their relationship were there to protect them both. Without that disciplined framework, anything could happen. Now, more than ever, Danse couldn't afford to bend the rules. He shook his head. "That would… I feel that would be inappropriate, given the nature of our working relationship."

Myra's bloodshot eyes threatened to overflow again as she flashed him an incredulous look. "Our working relationship? Are you kidding me? Look around you. Do you see any Brotherhood flags? I know you'll be your ramrod-straight self when we're at work, and that's fine. But for God's sake, Danse, we're alone out here. No regulations for miles." She sighed. "Please, just… if we really are friends, you could at least treat me like a human for once, and not just a cog in the Brotherhood machine?"

Danse sighed. There she was again with that damned look in her eyes. Did she how that he could never deny her when she looked at him like that? "Very well, Lari...Myra. If you insist. But only so long as we are off duty," he added hastily. "The last thing I think either of us wants is for Elder Maxson to accuse us of fraternizing and reassign you to another sponsor. That would be… unfortunate."

In spite of himself, Danse realized, her transfer really was the last thing he wanted. He'd asked Maxson to sign the transfer paperwork as a way to stop himself from putting the Brotherhood's mission at risk, but it hadn't been what he wanted. He wanted to be by her side as long as he was able.

Myra laughed. "Fair enough. I don't really want to deal with one of the other Paladins. I mean, Brandis would be okay, but I don't think he's ready to take on any subordinates just yet. And given the position I'm in, I'm not sure I need another Paladin breathing down my neck."

The Paladin frowned, his cheeks burning. "I can assure you, they're all quite capable soldiers. But I concur. I'd...I'd rather remain your sponsor. I won't do anything to jeopardize that."

"But that's for when we get back, ok?" Myra asked. "While we're here, can we just be Myra and Danse for a while? Or can I use your first name too?"

Danse cleared his throat awkwardly, his gut wrenching at the suggestion. "I would rather you didn't."

Myra frowned, confused. "Why not?"

Danse tried his best to think of an excuse. He hadn't gone by his first name in years. No one used it, nor did he want them to. He hated his name. It reminded him of his past, of fighting for scraps of rancid meat in the filth-ridden streets of the Capital Wasteland. Only Cutler had ever used it, and even he had preferred to call Danse by his first initial, rather than the clunky moniker the young orphan had been saddled with.

He thought of his parents, whose faces he couldn't even remember. Had they abandoned him willingly, or had they been forced to leave him behind? His memories of them were fuzzy, vague. All he had to cling to was the sound of his mother's voice, urging him to stay put until she or his father came back for him. He'd waited for days before wandering out into the metro. He'd never found a trace of them, dead or alive. They were simply...gone. Honestly, Danse wasn't certain how he'd survived, young as he'd been. Perhaps he'd simply been too afraid to die.

"I…" Danse sighed. "It's part of the past, Myra," he said finally. "And I would prefer it if it remained that way. I'm sorry, but I'm not comfortable with it."

She nodded. "I'm sorry for pushing you so hard, Danse. I know I'm asking a lot of you, and you've already done so much for me."

"It's quite all right," he replied. "Maybe someday I'll…" he trailed off as Myra's hand brushed gently against his cheek, his eyes wide in shock at the tender gesture. "What are you doing?"

Myra blushed, withdrawing her hand as if it had been burned. "I'm sorry! I just…" she sighed. "You looked so sad, Danse. I couldn't help it."

"I...I need to gather firewood," the Paladin exclaimed abruptly, retreating from the room. His heart pounded loudly in his ears as he fled the cabin. He felt like an idiot for being unable to control his response to her touch. Myra clearly didn't mean anything by it. She was trying to be a compassionate friend. But he...he wanted more than that. He needed more than that.

"This is going to be a long mission," Danse mumbled to himself, his stomach contorting into strange shapes. One way or another, he had a horrible feeling that this retreat was going to be the death of him.

* * *

_A/N: I think that Danse is going to blow a gasket if he doesn't admit his feelings to Myra soon. I mean, geez, it's taken him long enough, right?_

_**Thanks for your patience as I came to terms with being suddenly unemployed after three years. Life throws us curveballs sometimes, but the show must go on, right? My schedule might continue being erratic as I try to find work, so please subscribe to this story if you don't want to miss updates. I'll do my best to stay as consistent as I can.**_

_**Love Always, Mnemoli **_

_NEXT CHAPTER: Deacon tracks Myra down to apologize. Things don't exactly go as planned._


	5. The Apology

**5\. The Apology**

**_Deacon tries to make things right. But is it already too late to fix Myra's relationship with the Railroad...and with him?_**

* * *

"I told you that you should have gotten out of Goodneighbor when you had the chance," Deacon said, leaning against the wall of Dr. Amari's lab. Her had to admit, it was good just to see Amari back at work. For nearly two weeks, the scientist's life had hung in the balance. Fortunately for her as well as the synths who relied on her services, the bullet that had pierced her chest had missed most of her major organs, and quick intervention had prevented the worst outcome. She'd lost most of her right lung, so she wouldn't be running any marathons soon, but she had survived.

Dr. Amari wheezed sardonically as she wheeled herself over to her monitor, her dark eyes clouded with fatigue. "And who would help these poor souls if I left? You know how most people feel about synths, and that includes many with my expertise. Until your friends decide to relocate operations entirely, Deacon, there's nowhere else for me to go."

"We're probably going to have to move anyway," he replied with a heavy sigh. "After what happened to you, it's clear that the Railroad can no longer guarantee the safety of anyone in Goodneighbor. Until things change, we're all in danger."

"You should be used to that by now," the doctor continued as she typed away on her keyboard. "Isn't danger your profession?"

"Well, kinda," Deacon said. "I mean, secrets are my profession. But man, there is an awful lot of danger when secrets are involved. Sometimes, I wish I could just go back to being a teacher. I miss those days. Things were simpler, and there was way less...y'know, stabbing and stuff. At least with kids, you can just hold them by the top of the head until they get tired of trying to disembowel you. Harder to do that with adults, since their arms are longer."

Dr. Amari shook her head. "I just can't picture you as anything but a spy. I certainly wouldn't trust you with my children, if I had any."

Deacon recoiled playfully, clutching his chest. "Oww! That hurts, doctor! After everything we've been through together…"

"Don't make me laugh," she gasped. "It's hard enough to breathe as it is." She gestured to the screen. "Here's the information you asked for."

The spy walked over to her side, eyeing the monitor. Illuminated in bright green type was what appeared at first glance to be a medical supply manifest.

_RadAway: 27_

_Stimpacks: 9_

_Med-X: 12_

Deacon whistled in admiration. "27 completed procedures, huh? I knew this was gonna be a tough station to replace, but…"

"As you can see," Dr. Amari continued, "I've had 12 synths killed in transit in the last quarter. That's almost double the losses of the previous year alone. Things are getting dire, Deacon. Your friends at HQ need to provide tighter security, or I can't promise that the next batch you send me will even make it out of town, let alone out of the Commonwealth."

"That's why it's best if we relocate you," the spy replied. "I'll let our people know, and we'll hopefully be able to find you someplace safer to work."

She shook her head. "I can't just leave. My life's work is here."

"That doesn't mean you have to die here," Deacon pleaded. "It'll only be temporary, until it's safe for you to come back."

"I can't, Deacon," Dr. Amari replied. "My work here is too important. And you know as well as I do that there's no safe place for people with our views in the Commonwealth. Not anymore."

Deacon sighed. He knew Amari was right. With the Institute's psychological warfare and infiltration breeding paranoia, and the Brotherhood of Steel literally looming above their heads, the Commonwealth had become a very perilous place to be a friend to synths. Things were untenable here in Goodneighbor, but where was there a better alternative? He couldn't move Amari without risking Institute intelligence getting word of her location. In spite of the very real dangers presented by staying put, it was honestly the best option. "Will you at least promise to lock your doors?" he said finally.

She nodded. "Mayor Hancock's already promised me two extra security guards in the Memory Den lobby. I never thought I'd see the day when I'd have to be protected from the people I've been treating for years," she murmured. "What is the world coming to?"

Deacon chucked. "Haven't you heard? The world's over. Has been for a long time."

"Unfortunately, we both know that's not true," Dr. Amari mused. "But if the Institute isn't stopped, it might as well be. Their disregard for life on the surface was always a bit insulting, like they saw us as a petri dish for their experiments. Now...I don't know. I think I liked it better when they mostly ignored us."

"You and me both," Deacon agreed. He thought for a moment, trying to figure out exactly how much intelligence he could safely share with the good doctor. After all, she wasn't part of the Railroad. Not officially. She was an asset, an ally, but not an agent. Hell, even when dealing with full agents, Deacon rarely told them more than what they absolutely needed to know. It was safer that way, for everyone.

His mind, as it often did, drifted to Myra. If there had ever been a person he wanted to be completely honest with, it was her. That was one of the many reasons why getting close to her was a dangerous mistake. Deacon was incredibly lucky that he'd had the presence of mind to put an end to...whatever had happened that night. He was incredibly unlucky that he had to put an end to it. Of all the times for him to get sentimental…

Maybe there was hope, however. He didn't necessarily want to believe it, and lord knew the spy could barely see the glimmer of it, but it was there. Once the Institute was gone, the biggest threat to the Railroad would be destroyed, and things would be easier. Then, perhaps, Deacon could convince Myra to help drive the Brotherhood of Steel out of the Commonwealth. After all, Elder Maxson, that crazy son of a bitch, insisted that they were only in the 'Wealth to stop the Institute. Deacon didn't believe a word of it. It was in the nature of the Brotherhood of Steel to take over everything. But if Myra believed it, and Maxson betrayed her trust...it was possible. And once both factions had either been destroyed or had abandoned the Commonwealth, perhaps things would get easier. Perhaps fewer secrets and fewer walls would be necessary.

Deacon knew it was wishful thinking. Desdemona would never allow him to work with Myra if she realized how close he'd come to letting his guard down with her completely. Frankly, the fact that trusting Myra came so easily to Deacon horrified him. And that night in the bar, those hungry, hot kisses that they'd shared...Deacon had to believe that it had all been part of the act, but oh, how he wanted to believe that there had been truth behind the facade. He never believed that he could feel those things again after losing Barbara. And he certainly would never believe that he deserved them. It couldn't happen. He and Myra...it couldn't happen.

All the same, Myra deserved to know the truth, deserved to know why he'd reacted so strongly and had pushed her away. He couldn't tell her how he felt, not without putting them both at risk, but he could explain who he was at the core. If she knew the real him, there wasn't a doubt in his mind that the situation would right itself. Myra would have to be crazy to have feelings for a man like him. Once she saw that, maybe they could move on with their mission. Maybe things would finally go back to normal.

"Deacon, are you all right?" Dr. Amari asked, eyeing him carefully. "You've been staring off into space for a long time. Perhaps you need your head examined."

Deacon shook his head. "I was thinking about what's ahead," he said simply. It wasn't exactly a lie. "We're going to find a way to stop the Institute, Amari. I can't tell you more than that, but we will."

She smiled slightly at him, an unusual expression for her typically stoic face. "I hope you're right." Dr. Amari wheeled herself over to one of the tables that framed her lab. She grabbed a holotape from the counter, offering it to Deacon. "Can you do me a favor? Since I'm effectively trapped in the basement for the time being, would you mind taking this to one of the nearby dead drops?"

Deacon nodded. As curious as he was about what was on the tape, he knew better than to ask. "Are you sure you'll be okay if I leave?"

The doctor snorted. "I can take care of myself, Deacon. I might be stuck in this wheelchair, but I can hold my own."

"I know you can. That's not why I'm asking. It's just...I have a few errands to run. I won't be back to Goodneighbor for quite a while. So are you sure you can bear to be separated from me, or do I need to ask Dez for an extension?"

"Just get out of my lab before I have the boys upstairs through you out," Amari sighed. "It's bad enough you've been smothering me for the last two weeks. Now you're telling me that you've been shirking work and using me as an excuse? That's unacceptable!"

Deacon laughed, hoisting his pack over one shoulder. "I wasn't exactly slacking off, you know. You're Railroad business too. Can't let word get out that our tourists are getting shot. Do you have any idea what would happen? It'd be chaos in the streets! Rioting, looting, hell, who knows what else."

"You realize that rioting and looting are basically the national pastime," Dr. Amari grumbled. "You don't have to babysit me. Get back to work."

"Only if you promise to let me borrow that wheelchair when you're back on your feet," the spy replied with a cheeky grin. "I wanna try racing that puppy down the ramp at Thicket Excavations. I wonder how fast it can go…"

"Fast enough to splatter your fool brains across the wall of the quarry, I think," she replied. "This is rare and valuable medical equipment, Deacon, not a toy."

"Why are all the doctors in my life such stiffs?" Deacon teased. "Do they take your sense of humor away when you get your certification, or is the caustic personality a prerequisite for the job? I've always wondered."

Dr. Amari rolled her eyes. "I'll miss you too, Deacon. Now shoo, before I sedate you. Lord knows I could use some silence after two weeks stuck with your constant yammering."

Deacon beamed at her, blowing her a lazy kiss before climbing the stairs and exiting the _Memory Den_. With every step his smile faded, until all that was left was a neutral expression. He looked at the tape in his hand and sighed. Two weeks, and she was already back to work. There really was no rest for the Railroad, agents or otherwise. Hell, most of them would likely not live out the year, especially now that all of Myra's friends were poking the slumbering beast beneath the Commonwealth. Agent mortality rates had always been high, but now, with the Institute gaining more power almost daily and the Brotherhood growing bolder and bolder with their patrols...any day could bring another Switchboard Massacre. And this time, Deacon wasn't certain if any of them would survive.

He opened the dead drop just outside of town, an unassuming news stand half-buried in rubble. To his surprise, there was already a tape inside. Odd. Drummer Boy's runners usually cleared the dead drops out pretty regularly. Either someone was slacking off, or the message was for Deacon himself. He picked the tape up, turning it over in his hands before tucking it away in his pack for later when he could find a terminal. The spy replaced the tape with the one from Dr. Amari, closing the lid carefully. He tapped out a short series of gentle finger beats on the top of the machine to wake up Tinker Tom's little alert machine that a pickup was available. Once he heard a muffled beep from inside the box, he walked away, heading south towards the Castle. There were certainly terminals there, or if he was lucky, Myra would let him borrow her Pip-Boy. If the damned things weren't so hard to come by and so garishly obvious to wear, he would have gotten his own ages ago, if only to play an occasional game of Zeta Invaders to kill time between missions.

As the day deepened and Deacon's trail brought him closer to the Minutemen fortress, he found his mind racing as he tried to figure out exactly what he should say to Myra when he found her. With how badly their last interaction had gone, he couldn't be certain that she'd even agree to talk to him. Frankly, he couldn't blame her. Their friendship wouldn't be the first one he'd killed prematurely in the name of security, and it likely wouldn't be the last.

There was a reason why Deacon preferred working alone. Yeah, it sucked not having anyone to watch his back, but it was infinitely safer in many other ways. Lone wolves rarely were tempted to be heroes, for one. If there was one thing he'd learned after surviving countless massacres and attacks on the Railroad, it was that people who played hero usually got themselves killed. Deacon had no interest in dying. Not before he'd repaid his debt to the world in full. Skulking around and keeping his true intentions shielded from the world might not have been an honorable choice, but it had sure as hell kept him alive. Well, that and his ridiculous good luck, but the spy never banked on being lucky. That required a certain level of comfort and naivete that Deacon was just not capable of any more. Not after Barbara. At least, not until recently.

Deacon could kick himself - and in fact had kicked himself, both literally and figuratively - for not being more careful with his interactions with Myra. He wasn't sure when his desire to recruit her to the Railroad had changed into something far more dangerous and unpredictable. Perhaps elements of affection had been there all along, and he was just too blind or too stupid to realize it. By the time he know how deep the shit he was wading in had gotten, it was almost too late to swim back to shore. In a lot of ways, Deacon wasn't convinced that he had managed to shake his feelings for her. After that damned hallucination in Hancock's living room...what was that about, anyway? Just some new torture his troubled mind had cooked up for him? It didn't matter. Whatever was making him so stupid had to be ignored or destroyed. Myra was too valuable to the Railroad. He needed to be able to work with her without his feelings getting in the way.

The best thing Deacon could do would be to just apologize for being a jerk. He'd tell her that he shouldn't have reacted that way, and then remind her about the Railroad's policies on relationships between agents. She'd understand, wouldn't she? He sighed. "No, she won't," he muttered to himself. "Myra's never been big on rules. Hell, if she...she might see it as a challenge." He needed to think of another tactic, and fast.

"Maybe you could just tell her the truth?" he mused. The words had barely crossed his lips before he rejected them. Tell her the truth, let her see the real him? What the hell would that accomplish. Sure, it would horrify her to know who he really was. But what if it bothered her so much that she still left the Railroad? That she still left him?

Deacon realized with a jolt of panic that he was honestly terrified of losing her. The fear itself, honestly, was scarier than the cause in his mind. Was he really that far gone? Did it matter? Whether he liked it or not, that was the truth. Deacon had gotten used to depending on her, to trusting her. If he shared that side of himself with her, if her revulsion drove her away...he wasn't certain he could bear it. Myra was the first person he'd ever considered being totally honest with. If she rejected his friendship once she knew, he would probably never be able to tell anyone again. Was it really worth the risk?

A thousand voices in his head cried out for him to reconsider, to play it safe, to keep his demons locked safely in their cage of lies. Fear overwhelmed him as he continued to walk towards the Castle, one foot carefully planted in front of the other like he was being led to the executioner's block. Still, there was no turning back. There was no undoing the course he'd set for himself. Coward or not, this was the right thing to do. Myra deserved better. Myra deserved the truth. If that meant that she would never speak to him again, at least she would finally understand why he was so flippant with her sometimes: Myra deserved better than anything he could ever offer her.

Deacon camped for the night on the roof of Gwinnett Brewery. He wanted time to think, to plan, and perhaps most importantly to rest before meeting with Myra in the morning. After all, this conversation was going to change things between them forever. He could only hope that the change was for the best.

The spy pulled a folded scrap of paper from his pocket, the poem he'd spent the last half a year fixated on. He sighed as he leaned against one of the industrial air conditioners that crowded the rooftop and read the words to himself, murmuring under his breath.

"It burns so quietly within my soul," he said so softly that the words seemed to catch on his lips. "No longer should you feel distressed by it." If only that were true.

* * *

"Well, howdy, Colonel," Deacon drawled as he strutted into the Castle and directly into Preston's questioning gaze. "I'm here to see the General."

Preston sighed. "She's not here, Deacon."

"What do you mean she's not here?" Deacon said as Preston snatched the militia hat off of the spy's head. "And give me my hat back!"

Preston shook his head. "No, I'm keeping this. So, you're impersonating a Minuteman now? Where did you get the uniform?"

"If you must know, I enlisted fair and square ages ago," Deacon protested. "Your predecessors weren't exactly big on the idea of background checks. Too busy fighting each other to care about anything besides numbers."

"So not only are you a spy, but you're a deserter," the Colonel muttered. "Fortunately for you, I'm in a good mood, so as long as you leave the uniform here when you go, I'll consider you retired."

Deacon nodded, hastily unbuttoning his tan uniform shirt. "I'll just take it off now. Save us the trouble."

"Please don't," Preston protested.

"Please do!" one of the nearby militia-women catcalled jokingly. "Always wondered what was under those disguises of yours."

That voice...Deacon turned to look for the source, his stomach dropping as his eyes met a familiar pair of dark brown ones. Damn it, he'd trained her better than this. "Trail," he murmured, "what the hell are you doing here?"

Trailblazer smiled weakly at him. "I'll admit, you weren't exactly the person I wanted to see either," she said. "Just leave me be, Deacon. I promise, I won't make trouble."

"You know I can't do that," Deacon replied sadly. "Damn it, Trail. All you had to do was hide until I left, and I'd never have had to know."

"I'm done hiding," she replied. "When has hiding ever helped anyone? It sure as heck didn't save Tommy, and he was so much better at it than I am."

Preston frowned at their exchange. "Talise, what's going on?"

Trailblazer waved a hand towards the Colonel dismissively. "Leave it alone, Garvey," she murmured. "Please." Her eyes returned to Deacon, and she frowned. "Tell Dez I'm dead or something. It's basically true anyways. Trailblazer's gone. I'm just Talise again. And it's better this way. I'm happy here, Deacon...really, truly happy. Just let me be."

Deacon sighed heavily, taking a step closer to her. "It's not that simple. You can't just...you can't just leave, Trail. You know too much. Eventually, someone else is going to track you down, someone who isn't your friend, and they won't give you the choice to come home."

She rolled her eyes. "You stopped being my friend when you didn't tell me about Tommy. Heck, maybe you never really were my friend," Trail scoffed. "A man like you...are you even capable of friendship?"

Deacon's heart contorted in his chest as her words sunk in. Trailblazer was right, of course. The spy had been many things to many people over his lifetime. But when in a long time could he honestly say he'd been someone's friend? Maybe he wasn't capable of that sort of trust. Maybe he was deluding himself when he thought that things had changed. "I'm so sorry," he said gently, "but I have to bring you in. Or…"

Preston walked in front of Trailblazer, a physical barrier between Deacon and his once-student. "Or what? You'll kill her? Not in my territory, you won't. Lieutenant Guerra is one of my soldiers now, Deacon. She's not going anywhere she doesn't want to. If anyone tries to take her, they'll be starting a war with us. And I know the Railroad can't afford that. So tell your boss that Talise isn't a threat, and leave her alone."

Deacon chuckled, shaking his head at Preston. "Wow. How long has she been here? A couple months, tops? Damn, you really are a natural agent, Trailblazer. It's such a shame. Fortunately for all of us, Trail's not why I'm here. Myra is. You still haven't answered my question. Last I heard, Myra was here at the Castle. So where is she now?"

Preston's eyes narrowed. "I don't think I should tell you," he growled. "Not after what you did to her."

Deacon flinched involuntarily. "What did she say?" he asked nervously.

"She didn't have to say anything," the Colonel replied coldly. "What kind of man leaves a woman defenseless like that in the middle of a war zone? Did you know that she almost died? God damn it, Deacon, you're supposed to be her partner? Why was she alone?"

"Hey, that was her choice," Deacon lied. "We were on an op, and things went sideways. Next thing I know, she's gone. I did look for her, but once I heard she was here, I figured she was safe enough, so I went to finish my mission."

"Well, she wasn't safe," Preston growled, rounding on the spy. "Like I said, she nearly died. You should have been there."

"And what about you?" Deacon retorted. "Like you so graciously pointed out, this is your territory. That means it was your job to protect her."

"I…" Preston's eyes darkened. "I did my best. But she never should have been in that situation in the first place!"

"I agree!" Deacon exclaimed. "She shouldn't have been! But from what I hear, we both screwed up, so don't get on my case about it! Grab your own plank before you go messing with mine!"

"Fine!" Preston shouted back, grabbing Trailblazer by the arm. "Come on, Guerra. We've got drills to run."

"So you're just going to leave me here?" Deacon retorted, grinning. "Oh, I'm so playing with that fancy radio equipment you guys have."

The Colonel shook his head. "No. I'm not." Preston gestured to a nearby woman. "Davis, please take our...guest to the General's quarters. Feed him, but he's not allowed to leave the room for any reason."

"So I'm being detained?" Deacon asked. "That's not very nice of you."

Preston smirked. "It's only temporary. You'll be escorted out as soon as you've been searched. Thoroughly."

"By her?" Deacon grinned, waggling his eyebrows at the petite blonde. "Well, well."

Davis rolled her eyes. "So this is the Railroad's finest? Man, they are so fucked. Relax, buddy. You ain't got nothing I haven't seen bigger and better. I promise I'll try not to laugh, 'kay?"

"Davis…" Deacon pondered aloud. "Oh! You're Ignatius' master, aren't you? I've met your daughter. Great kid. Must take after her father."

"If you knew him, you wouldn't be so disrespectful," Davis growled. "Just for that, I'm gonna take extra care with the cavity searches."

"As long as you buy me dinner first, lady, you can take all the time you want," Deacon teased. "I'm kinda looking forward to this now, I have to admit."

"On second thought, Ignatius is far more qualified," the blonde hissed as she led Deacon towards the quarters. "And way less gentle."

Deacon thought for a moment before shrugging. "Eh. I've dealt with worse. Not exactly my first rodeo there, cowgirl. But how about we dispense with the formalities and just...have a conversation? Spy to spy. Sound good?"

She nodded. "Any funny business, and you'll wish we went with the search instead."

Deacon grinned. "Naturally. No, Miss Davis, I respect members of the profession. Don't worry. I'll behave."

"So you're one of those noble spies," she said with a shit-eating grin. "Pity. That'll get you killed someday."

"It certainly has kept everyone trying," he agreed, opening the door to Myra's room. He walked over to her desk chair and sat, resting his feet on the cluttered desk. "So, I'm Deacon. You probably know me from Ignatius' reports, which I'm not sure is a good thing, but hey, you work with what you've got."

She flopped down on Myra's bed with a sigh. "Kestrel Davis. My friends call me Kes, so you can call me Kestrel. Of course, I'm sure you already knew that and you're just playing dumb. If you were even half as dumb as you pretend to be, there's no way you'd still be alive. Don't get me wrong, the Commonwealth is soft. But it's not that soft."

"Well, we weren't all brought up in the desert," Deacon mused. "I mean, there's a branch of my family out West somewhere, but I've never met them. I just know them by reputation. Not great people, it turns out."

"Who is, these days?" Kestrel agreed. "So, you're looking for everyone's favorite Vault-Dweller. Why?"

Deacon sighed. He didn't trust Kestrel at all. Of course he didn't. She was a spy for a rival organization, and while she and her Foxes had never directly gone after the Railroad, they were a bit of an unknown entity. Perhaps, however, that made her the perfect person to confide in. As an agent, she'd understand his dilemma, wouldn't she? And she'd have no inclination to report back to Dez. "I screwed up," he said finally.

Kestrel laughed, her grey eyes shining in amusement. "No," she said sarcastically. "I hadn't figured that one out at all. So, what exactly did you do?"

"I...might have broken the basic rule any spy knows not to break," he replied.

Her eyes widened. "You bet it all on red, not black? You fool!"

"What? No! I got too attached to my partner," he corrected. "What the hell kind of organization are you running?"

"One that doesn't live by that kind of puritanical bullshit, apparently," Kestrel muttered. "So what, the General got jealous, and now you're trying to…" she gasped. "Wait. No. The General is your partner?" Deacon nodded slightly, and Kestrel chortled. "What the hell is it with you guys and her? You'd think she was the only nice piece of ass in this wasteland! Does she know?"

Deacon shook his head. "No. And I'm not going to tell her. It doesn't matter anyway. I'm going to forget about it. I have to. Our mission is more important than something like that. Besides, you know what it's like. We'd just drag each other down. She deserves more than that."

Kestrel sighed. "And I deserved a penthouse suite at every casino in New Vegas for everything I did for those people. What did I get? Nearly killed. A lot. You want some friendly advice?" He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she beamed at him. "Okay, well, some advice, at least?"

"I guess it couldn't hurt," he replied.

"This life's brutal and short. You find someone worth throwing everything away for, and you're a fool for not going for it while you have the chance. I mean, that's what I did. I left everything I knew, a full pardon and everything, because I knew that my partner was worth fighting for. And damn, what a run we had." She sighed. "Sometimes, I still hope that calculating bastard'll walk through the door someday and I'll finally get the chance to tell him that I…" Kestrel choked back a stray tear, groaning in embarrassment. "Why the hell do you care? We're talking about you, not me."

Deacon's heart ached for her. Here she was, a strong, fierce warrior woman, and just the mere thought of the man she'd cared for made her weak. That wasn't what he wanted for himself. Any weakness was just waiting for someone to exploit it. People in their business couldn't afford that kind of liability. "Was it worth it?" he asked softly.

Kestrel nodded. "Yeah. Hell yeah it was. It hurts like a bitch, I'm not gonna lie. But it was worth it, Deacon. Just looking at our daughter makes it worth it. And even if she'd never happened…" she sighed. "I wouldn't change a damn thing."

Deacon frowned. "It's not just the rules. I...I've lost someone before. I can't do it again. It wouldn't be fair to either of us."

"Well, if you wanna be miserable, that's your right," she sighed. "Just ask yourself one thing: will you regret it more if you let her go or if you lose her? Because if those really are your only options, I feel like the choice is pretty clear."

"Maybe," Deacon replied sheepishly. "But honestly, even if I was ready to come clean with her, I don't even know where she is or how to reach her. Preston sure as hell isn't gonna tell me. I think that guy might actually hate me, and I didn't think he hated anyone."

Kestrel glared at him. "So what, you give me your little sob story and now you expect information? Sorry, pal. I like you, I really do. You remind me of someone I used to know, actually. But I do believe in loyalty, and you haven't earned mine."

"I wasn't...look," Deacon backpedaled, "I wasn't trying to play you. I just really need to find her so I can at least apologize for being an utter asshole."

She shook her head. "I still can't help you. But I guess I could use a nap," she continued, yawning. "There's water in the fridge if you need it." With that, she curled up on her side, facing away from him. Her hand rested firmly on the dagger at her hip however, a clear sign that she was still keeping an eye on him.

Deacon walked quietly over to the fridge, swinging it open. To his surprise, the old appliance was backless and non-functional. Inside was indeed a few bottles of water, but also a computer terminal. He grinned. Myra really was a clever one.

It didn't take him long to break in to her computer, but that was more a testament to his skill rather than her incompetence. "Frankincense" was a pretty decent password. He popped the holotape he'd picked up in the appropriate slot, turning the volume down low and leaning in closely to hear the message.

" _This is Witness_," a gentle, feminine voice stated. Deacon frowned. He'd never met the operative in person, but he knew her by reputation. Witness was one of the Railroad's agents in the Brotherhood of Steel, whose orders were to keep her head down and keep an ear out for any operations planned against the agency. For her to reach out directly meant that either something big was happening or... " _If anyone's listening, the General of the Minutemen's near the remains of Allen Safehouse . There's a cabin there, right on the edge of the lake. My sources say she's been there for over a week now. Someone should probably find out what she's doing all alone out there with a Brotherhood Paladin. I'm not saying he'd hurt her. Of course not! Danse would never...I mean, he's a good man_ ." Witness cleared her throat awkwardly. "_ I'm just saying, whatever led them out there, it's caused a big stir here. If they're planning an alliance...We need to move on this before the...oh, geez. Patrol's coming back. I've got to go. Good luck!_ "

So Witness didn't know that Myra was a fellow agent. That was a relief, at least. There were already too many people who knew about Myra's involvement with the Railroad. If anyone in the Brotherhood even suspected her, even if that person was another agent, it could spell her death. Deacon had to admit, though, he hadn't been expecting such detailed information about her whereabouts. Either Witness was even better connected than he'd thought, or Myra's close relationship with Danse was a matter of some concern for the Brotherhood as well.

He sighed. So she was with her Paladin. At a remote cabin. Damn. Maybe his window really was closing. Deacon shut down the computer after erasing the holotape. With a gentle cough, he turned to Kestrel. "Sorry to drink and dash," he joked, "but I'd like to be escorted out now."

She groaned, rolling over to face him. "Fine. Don't let me sleep. Fucking jerk. Do you have any idea how comfortable the general's bed is compared to my cot?"

Deacon shook his head. "Can't say that I do," he replied. "Now, are you gonna throw me out or what? No offense, but I've got places to be, cats to rescue...you know the drill."

Kestrel snorted. "Right. Hey, take care of yourself, Deacon. And don't forget what we talked about. Life's a gamble either way. Might as well play."

"I'll keep that in mind,' he replied. "Tell Renata hi for me. You've got a good kid."

"Don't I know it?" Kestrel stood up, leading Deacon back towards the courtyard. "I'll tell her you promised to bring her the biggest, stupidest toy you can find next time you swing by."

Deacon laughed. "Really? I'm not exactly known for keeping my promises, Kestrel. You sure you wanna make me lie to a kid, too? You're heartless."

"Well, follow through and it won't be a lie," she teased. "Now get lost before Preston realizes I let you go. You owe me."

"I do," he replied as she shoved him through the gate. "Thanks, Kestrel."

"Just don't make a habit of it," she snarked, slamming the door in his face.

Deacon looked at the door in shock for a moment before laughing hysterically. Well, damn. That was one for the memory bank. He crept along the outside of the wall until he reached the shore, and with a flourish, he activated a Stealth Boy and was gone.

* * *

It took Deacon the better part of a day to reach the cabin. He recognized the small green building immediately. For years, the little shack had been the reception area for Allen Safehouse. There was a trapdoor behind the dresser that led into a series of old drainage pipes for the Chestnut Hillock Reservoir and ultimately to a bunker beneath the lake. It had been one of the nicer safehouses, until the Institute invaded and killed everyone inside, flooding the structure with irradiated water. Deacon wondered if either Myra or Danse had any idea that they were holed up on top of a mass grave.

Deacon perched in a tree outside, pulling his scope out and watching through the cabin window. Sure enough, there was Myra, sitting at the kitchen table cleaning her laser rifle. He frowned as he looked at her gaunt cheeks, her exhausted eyes. Preston hadn't been lying about her condition. Deacon hadn't seen her looking this corpse-like since the day he'd rescued her from the vault.

Paladin Danse fussed about nearby, his power armor filling the tight space almost absurdly. Deacon rolled his eyes. How the hell did Danse even function like that in such a tight space? Ridiculous.

He wasn't sure how long he waited for Danse to leave, but eventually, the Paladin headed for the nearby ruins in search of supplies. "Are you certain you'll be able to handle things on your own?" Danse asked.

Myra nodded. "You worry too much. I'll be fine."

This seemed to satisfy the Paladin, and within moments, he was clanking away towards the Fens, his eyes scanning for danger with every step. Finally. Deacon hopped out of the tree, landing gracefully like a cat. He watched Danse's retreating form for any sign that the soldier sensed his presence, but no sign ever came. He was home free.

The spy knocked on the cabin door, his foot tapping nervously. He still wasn't sure what he was doing here. After how things had been left between him and Myra, he wasn't even sure she'd even see him. But Kestrel was right. For better or worse, he couldn't just leave things as they were. Deacon had to take a risk, or everything was going to fall apart anyway. He and Myra needed to work through whatever had been building between them. She was too important to the Railroad for it all to end like it had.

Myra opened the door a crack, the muzzle of her laser rifle visible in the gap. "Who the hell is it?"

"Easy, Whisp," Deacon replied, waving. "It's just me."

"Deacon?" she asked, throwing the door open. She stared at him, wide-eyed. "What the hell are you doing here? Danse will be back any minute. What if he sees you?"

"So let him see me," Deacon replied. "It's not like he'll recognize me. We need to talk."

She nodded, letting him in. "Yeah, we do, don't we?" She offered him a chair as she hobbled to the counter, pouring a can of water into a small kettle. "I was going to make some coffee. You want any?"

Deacon nodded. "That'd be great, actually," he replied. "As long as you have sugar."

Myra chuckled. "Figures you'd take it sweet. I might still have some Stingwing honey, if Danse didn't use the last of it." She fiddled around in the cupboard, returning with a small jar of viscous syrup. "It's not exactly sugar, but it'll do," she replied. When the coffee was ready, she poured them each a cup, setting a steaming, chipped mug at each of their places before easing into her chair with a groan of discomfort.

Deacon felt a twinge of guilt as he watched her. Preston was absolutely right. If he'd been with her, Myra might not have gotten so badly injured. It was totally his fault that she was in pain. "Whisp, I-"

"Deacon -" Myra said at almost the exact same time before looking at him with a pained smile. "You first," she offered.

He smiled sheepishly. "Look, Whisper, I...I'm sorry for reacting the way I did. It was juvenile of me. I...I got scared, I guess."

"Scared of what?" she asked.

Deacon blushed slightly. He knew this wasn't going to be easy, but it seemed like Myra was almost deliberately making things difficult. "You and I, we've become friends, haven't we?" he asked.

"I think so," she replied. "Why?"

"Well, I…" Deacon cleared his throat. "Look, I don't really get close to people. Not any more. It's not just because of Desdemona's rules, though that's part of it. But it's...I'm a fraud, Whisp. Everyone else in the Railroad, you...you all deserve to be there. I don't. I'm a monster."

Myra frowned. "If this is another one of your stories…"

He shook his head adamantly. "No, it isn't. This time, I want to tell you the truth. Will you let me?"

She smiled gently at him, and he felt his heart tremble. That damned smile. "Of course, Deacon."

"Thanks," he replied. "This isn't gonna be easy for me." He thought for a moment, stirring his coffee nervously as he tried to figure out where to begin. "See, When I was young, a hell of a long time ago, I was... well, scum. I was a bigot. A very violent bigot."

Whisper watched him with keen interest as he told her about his past with the U.P. Deathclaws, about Barbara. She reached for his hand, holding it gently as he described his wife's murder, how he'd lost himself to revenge. After he finished, she sat quietly for a moment, her eyes distant.

"Well," she said finally. "If that's true, I'm so sorry. No one should have to go through the death of a spouse. Believe me, I know."

Deacon nodded. "Yeah, I thought you might understand." He sighed. "Look, I know it's no excuse for how I behaved. But you, trusting me the way you do...I don't deserve that. I certainly don't deserve your friendship on top of that."

Myra smiled sadly at him, squeezing his hand. "Deacon, no one deserves the good things in their life. That's why we call them gifts. You can't spend the rest of your life rejecting everything good in your life just because you don't think you're worthy of them."

"It's not just that," he replied. "Whisp, I...I can't hold on to good things. Every time I try, they break. Even the Railroad was almost destroyed. It's a miracle any of us survived. I can't risk the same thing happening to you. You're...damn it, you're too important. To the Railroad. To me. That's why I wanted you to leave."

"Deacon, I'm not fragile," she retorted. "And I think I have a right to choose who I spend my time with."

God damn it, he really didn't deserve her. How could she be so...nice? After everything he told her, she was still there, still looking at him like he was the only person on earth. It wasn't at all the reaction he'd expected, and damn if it didn't make him want to sweep her into his arms. But he couldn't. Not now. Not ever. "Well, you can't say I didn't warn you," he mused, flashing her a bright grin. "Ok, that's enough tragic backstory for one day. I hope now maybe you understand why I panicked."

"I...I think I do, yeah," Myra replied. "But while you're being honest with me, there's something else I need to know. I...I learned something about the Railroad recently, and I need to know if it's true." She inhaled sharply. "Deacon, does the Railroad kill people? Were we involved in the attack on the Brotherhood recon squad three years ago?"

Deacon's eyes widened behind his sunglasses. Damn it, he'd hoped she'd never find out about that. It wasn't that he was ashamed of what the Railroad did to survive. Not exactly. It hadn't been his call. Desdemona tended to be impulsive, but her heart was in the right place. The Railroad had to be protected. Still, with things between Myra and the secret organization so tenuous right now...hell, Deacon knew how it looked. But he didn't want to lie to her. Not now. "Shit, Whisp," he muttered. "Who told you about that?"

"Is it true?" she asked again, her eyes bright with fierce intensity.

Deacon nodded. "But I...you have to understand, the Brotherhood and the Railroad don't get along. How could we? They want to kill all the synths! Sometimes, we have to do what is necessary to protect our interests."

"So it is true." Myra bit her lower lip. "Deacon, how many people have you killed for the Railroad?"

"I haven't killed anyone who wasn't trying to kill me directly since I left the 'Claws, Whisp, and that's the truth!" Deacon replied urgently. "I hate violence. You know that."

Myra scoffed. "I don't know a damn thing about you. I can't believe I let you toy with me like this. You're still lying to me, even now. Making up a story about your dead wife to get me to feel sorry for you, to forget what the Railroad's done..."

Deacon cringed, his hand flitting to his sunglasses. He was running out of options, and fast. If Whisper didn't relent, and soon...He removed the shades, popping them on top of his head. "Whisp. Stop. Look at me. Look into my eyes and tell me if I'm lying to you."

Her eyes met his for the first time, and he saw them widen in shock. Myra met his gaze, her calculating eyes searching his for any sign of guile. A parade of emotions twisted her lovely face, sorrow, anger, confusion...finally, she sighed. "Deacon, I'm so sorry," she murmured. "I believe you. But I'm afraid that good intentions just aren't enough. I'm not...I'm not ready to deal with Desdemona or her methods. Not right now."

"So where does that leave us?" Deacon asked, pained.

Myra sighed. "Everyone keeps asking me to choose. Well, you just helped me make a choice. I've decided to take the Oath when I get back to the Prydwen , Deeks."

Deacon felt his heart shatter. This was worse than his worst fears. He knew there was a chance that Myra would turn her back on him once she knew what kind of man he really was. He'd been prepared for that, or so he'd thought. But to have her accept him with open arms, just to lose her again, that was so painful that he almost couldn't bear it. "So that's it?" he cried, his eyes welling with tears that he couldn't hold back. "All the synths we've saved, all the people you've helped, and you're just going to turn your back on all of them? On the Railroad? On even the goddamn Minutemen? For what? What did Maxson promise you?"

"I'm not doing it for Maxson," she replied, her face stricken. She reached for his hand once more, but he snatched it away.

"Of course you aren't," Deacon snarled more maliciously than he'd intended. "You're doing it for Danse. Why the hell should I have expected anything different?"

Myra choked back a deep sob as she shook her head. "Deacon, I'm so sorry. If there was another way...but I think Quinlan knows that I'm with the Railroad. The only way I can protect Danse from scrutiny is if I look like he's managed to change my mind, like I've left the Railroad behind. I can risk Maxson taking his wrath out on me, but not him. He doesn't deserve to get caught up in all this."

Deacon couldn't help himself. It all hurt, so damn much. All he heard was rejection, was her choosing Danse over him, without even giving him a chance to fix what had come between them. He had to get away, had to protect himself. "Well, Whisper, I hope he knows what you're giving up for him," Deacon hissed. "And I really fucking hope that he appreciates it. Because you and me? We're done."

"What are you saying?" she exclaimed. "After everything you just said, everything I...you're just going to cut me off like this?"

"You're acting like you've given me a choice!" he replied. "Damn it, Whisp, don't you get it? If you commit yourself to the Brotherhood, it's only a matter of time before they order you to hunt me and the rest of the Railroad down. For all I know, they already have. And you won't be able to defy them, or they'll kill you for being a traitor."

"No, they won't," Myra retorted. "Maxson and I are close. He'll listen to me. He has to. All I have to do is convince him that you aren't a threat."

"Are you really that naive?" Deacon shook his head. "The Brotherhood hates synths, Whisper. We rescue them. There's no way we will ever see eye to eye. I can't believe you would even consider taking their side."

She shook her head, tears staining her freckled cheeks and misting up her glasses. "Deacon, please!"

He pulled away, his chair scooting across the hardwood floor with a horrifying squeal. "No. I'm sorry, but there's no way around it. Goodbye, Myra. I hope Danse is worth it, because this choice you're making? It's gonna cost you everything, not just me."

"Deacon!" She cried as he fled the cabin, struggling to follow him. But he was faster than her, and in a matter of moments, he vanished into the forest, leaving any hope of reconciliation behind.

Deacon wasn't sure how long he ran before he collapsed to the ground, wheezing. He reached into his pocket, fingers playing with the poison-filled bullet that rested there. What had long been a familiar trinket was now a horrifying responsibility, one he couldn't fail to fulfill. If Myra really was lost to him, if she really had decided to betray the Railroad… he shuddered, screwing his eyes shut as he tried to will the terrible burden he carried away. He didn't want to kill anyone, especially not her. But he no longer had the ability to ignore the real threat Myra posed to the Railroad. He had to put a stop to this before she exposed the whole organization.

Deacon wiped his eyes, pulling himself to his feet. He knew what he had to do. But for now, all he wanted to do was find a safe place to hide out, to process everything that had happened and everything still ahead of him. Most importantly, he needed a plan, and that meant casing the area around the cabin. That could take days. Weeks, even.

He wasn't stalling. No, he was going to kill her. Danse as well. It was his responsibility, he knew that. He just...maybe she'd change her mind if he bought her a little more time. Deacon knew Myra cared for him. She definitely did. So she'd come around, she'd come back to him.

Wouldn't she?

* * *

**_A/N: Well, that could have gone better! Will Myra and Deacon ever resolve their differences? Only time will tell..._**

**_Myra's password is a joke off of the fact that her name means "Myrrh," one of the other gifts of the Wise Men. I thought she'd enjoy the pun._**

**_NEXT CHAPTER: Danse tries to figure out what to do about Myra. Myra struggles with her decisions._**


	6. The Choice

**6\. The Choice**

**_After Deacon walks away from her, Myra's choice is clearer than ever. But is Danse ready to accept her decision?_**

* * *

It was nearly midnight by the time Danse returned from reconnoitering the area and scavenging what supplies he could from the outskirts of the Fens. The further into the city the Paladin went, the better their chances of finding supplies, but the risk to one soldier working alone was too great to chance it. Even in the half-destroyed shops and apartments of the outlying area Danse had searched, there were traces of Super Mutants, raiders, and all manner of other undesirable things. Fortunately, there were also quite a few unclaimed resources, and Danse was an expert at locating and procuring supplies. His pack was nearly bursting at the seams by the time he returned to the cabin.

The Paladin knocked three times in quick succession on the cabin door, followed by two slower knocks. This was the signal he and Myra had agreed on. The last thing he wanted was to get his head blown off by his partner just because he failed to follow protocol.

When Myra opened the door, he could tell right away that something was wrong. Her eyes were bloodshot, hollow, her cheeks stained with still-drying tears. The smile she flashed him was wrong, somehow, like she wasn't quite able to fake it.

"Myra, what happened while I was away?" Danse asked, pulling the door shut behind him. It was all he could do not to sweep her into his arms, to do whatever he could to erase the agony on her face. "Are you all right?"

She nodded weakly. "I'll be fine," she murmured. "I just...it's been a tough night. Being here alone with my thoughts isn't exactly the easiest thing in the world right now."

Danse nodded. "I'm sorry. If we hadn't been running low on supplies, I wouldn't have left you behind." He set his pack down on the kitchen counter, rifling through it and extracting his findings. "Fortunately, I believe I've procured enough food and water to sustain us until you're well enough to come with me for the next run."

"That's good," Myra said weakly. Danse paused, turning to look at her once more. It was more than being left alone. Something was definitely bothering her. Myra was wringing her hands, her lower lip trembling as she made eye contact with the cherub-like face of the boy on the coffee tin that lay open on the counter. Danse noticed with confusion that there were two cups out on the table. Why would Myra have made him a cup of coffee? She didn't know what time he'd return to the cabin, and although he'd gotten better at hiding his displeasure when drinking it, he still wasn't a huge fan of the bitter drink.

That left one of two possibilities. Either Myra had just had a mental lapse or someone else had been in the cabin. Given her behavior, Danse was convinced of the latter option. But no one was supposed to know where they were. No one except Farfield and Haylen, at least. Danse couldn't believe that either soldier would have elicited such a reaction from Myra. So who had been in the cabin with her?

If this had been when they'd first met, the Paladin wouldn't have hesitated to interrogate her, to find out what she wasn't telling him. He hated lies, and to him, deliberate withholding of information was just another form of lying. But he knew Myra, now. He trusted her, even when she didn't always give him cause to. Danse had to believe that she'd tell him what was going on in her own time.

Still, that didn't mean he couldn't expedite the process. Danse walked over to the table, gently clearing the half-full mugs from their spot and walking them over to the useless sink. He crooked an eyebrow at her as he emptied the frigid contents before setting the chipped mugs on the counter to be washed.

Myra's eyes widened as she realized her mistake, and she sighed. "I guess there's no hiding things from you," she muttered. "Deacon was here."

"Deacon?" Danse frowned. That damned spy was always interfering with their lives. Couldn't he give Myra any sort of break before dragging her back into his petty problems? Anger and jealousy wormed through the Paladin, and he fought to keep himself calm. "How did he find us?" he asked grimly. "You didn't contact the Railroad, did you? I thought you didn't want any contact with them until you'd made your decision."

"I didn't," Myra protested. "You have to believe that I didn't want him here. And after...after what happened, I wish I'd never opened that door." She leaned against the counter, her eyes brimming once more with tears. "I can't believe he'd put me in this position," she sobbed.

The Paladin was beside her in a flash, his steel-covered arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder. "What happened? Did he hurt you?" he asked, doing his best to hide his panic.

Myra shook her head. "No. At least...not physically. Deacon would never do that. I know what you think of the Railroad, Danse, of what they've done, but Deacon would never hurt me on purpose. I…" she sighed, clinging to Danse's chestplate. "I think it's safer to say that I hurt him. And I feel like the lowest, worst person imaginable because of it."

Danse looked down at her, his heart aching for the woman he adored. He didn't understand what she was saying, not completely. But whatever had happened between her and the Railroad agent had clearly affected her in a way that just replaying the events couldn't fix. He needed to break her mind out of its melancholy. "You should get some sleep," he suggested. "I assure you, things will be easier to deal with in the morning."

"I'm not tired," she retorted. "Hell, even if I was...I need a distraction. I just...God, why did it come to this?" Myra sobbed bitterly, burying her face in the crook of Danse's arm. He gently turned her chin upwards with his hand, wiping at the tears with his spare handkerchief.

Myra chuckled, batting his hand away. "Christ, Danse. I'm not a child." She wiped her eyes quickly on the back of her sleeve. "Though I'm sure I seem pretty pathetic to you by now."

"Hardly," Danse replied. "If anything, I'm envious."

She frowned. "What do you mean? You want to be a damn crybaby like me?"

"Not precisely," he corrected. "I just...you're so free with your emotions. Not everyone has the capacity to be that way. Or the freedom."

"Well, I'd rather not be this way," she lamented. "I hate being out of control. So if you wanna switch personalities, trust me, Danse, I'd be all for it."

"Unfortunately, I'm not certain that's possible," Danse replied with a soft smile. "But if you need an activity to take your mind off of whatever is troubling you, I did bring my chess set. Would you care for a game?"

Myra rolled her eyes. "So now you're going to take advantage of my mood and beat me even more soundly, is that it?"

"I...suppose the thought did cross my mind," the Paladin admitted. "But why not play a match with me? It always seems to help you when you're unhappy."

Myra huffed. "Well, I don't exactly have any incentive to play you any more, do I?"

"What do you mean?" he asked, dreading the answer. Had she lost so often that she wasn't even willing to try? Whas she simply bored of the game? Danse treasured their matches, not because they were challenging, but because it helped him feel close to her in a way that he couldn't allow himself to be otherwise. Facing each other down across the chess board, strangely, had always allowed them both to let their guard down. Looking back, the Paladin felt that perhaps that very first match on the roof of the Cambridge Police Station had sealed his fate. It pained him to think that Myra didn't feel the same way.

She smirked. "Our original bet was that if I beat you, I'd get to see you without your power armor on. But I've seen you without it quite a few times now. Doesn't seem like much of a reward these days."

Danse sighed. Or, of course, there was a more mundane and crass explanation. Naturally, Myra's concern was a lack of novelty, not a distaste for the game. He wasn't sure if he was relieved or more troubled by this revelation. "And I suppose you know what you'd like instead," he grumbled.

Myra nodded. "If I win, you've gotta kiss me."

What? Had he really head that right? Danse froze, his eyes wide. "Absolutely not!" he protested. "Myra, you know full well that wouldn't be appropriate."

"Who cares about whether it's appropriate or not, Danse?" she whined. "Come on. It's just you and me out here. Who's even going to know? Or do you just think you're a bad kisser or something?" Myra's grin deepened. "I'll bet that's it."

The Paladin swore that they could power a nuclear reactor with his blush at that moment. "I'm fairly certain this is sexual harassment, Knight," he sputtered.

"And what are you going to do about it, punish me?" Myra crooned. "Give me details."

"You're impossible," Danse muttered. For all the embarrassment, he was honestly just happy to see her smile again. If a kiss was what it took to ease her melancholy, then...well, he certainly wouldn't complain about it. He'd longed for another chance to feel her lips against his, and if a stupid bet was what it took, then so be it. She didn't have to know his reasons for taking it. And besides, it wasn't like she'd ever won a game of chess in all the matches they'd played. It wasn't likely that she was going to start now. "Very well," he sighed. "If it will get you to stop harassing me, I'll agree."

Myra laughed, sniffing back the remaining sorrow from her reddened nose. "I hope you packed chapstick!" she teased. "Because this time, I'm feeling lucky."

"Chess isn't about luck," Danse corrected as he set up the board on the dining room table. "It's about strategy, tactics, anticipating your opponent's every move."

"Or, it's about moving your pieces so randomly that your opponent doesn't have time to think up a counter-strategy," she replied. "White or black?"

Danse groaned inwardly. Had that been her strategy all this time? It did explain some of her more questionable tactical decisions. Hell, it explained some of her choices on the battlefield as well. Luck was all well and good, but only a fool would plan for good luck and call it a strategy. He sighed. This was going to be an easy win again. Frankly, given the circumstances, he was hoping for a loss, but he would never bring himself to throw the match. Even now, with such a fantastic consolation prize, his integrity wouldn't allow him to lose. "I'll take white," he said.

"Well, then, Danse," Myra said, a dangerous glint in her eye, "It's your move."

The Paladin hesitated for a moment before walking to the door and exiting his armor. As Myra had so crudely pointed out, it wasn't like there was a reason for him to keep it on while they were in the cabin. His...exposure was no longer a prize to be won. And besides, the empty suit would serve as an excellent barricade to prevent intruders. That'd teach Deacon to snoop around their camp.

Myra whistled teasingly as Danse returned to the table and sat across from her. "That's one hell of a first move," she teased, her cheeks a little bit pinker in the lantern light. "That flight suit really doesn't hide a lot, does it?"

Danse scowled. This was exactly why he didn't like being out of his power armor. He hated the flight suit, the looks he received when he wore it, how it rode up in the back...when forced to remove his armor for maintenance, he preferred to rely on fatigues. Those at least were less tight. He sighed before moving his king's pawn two spaces. "Just play the game, Myra."

She nodded, following suit with her king's pawn. "I'm sorry if I'm making you uncomfortable. You know I'm just teasing you."

Danse's king-side knight joined the fray, falling in to support his pawn. "The teasing is part of the problem," he replied.

Myra moved a second pawn next to her first. "What do you mean?"

Danse took her first pawn. This wasn't going to take long, was it? "Myra, things aren't…" he trailed off with a sigh. "I don't understand you."

She moved her queen in front of her king distractedly. "What's there to understand?"

"The way you are with people," Danse replied as his queen moved diagonally to the right side of the board, resting at H5. "I'm not exactly...great with human interaction. I'm sure you've realized that by now."

"Oh, definitely," Myra joked, advancing with a pawn and putting Danse's queen in danger. "But that's part of your charm. You'd be way less cute if you were all suave."

Danse retaliated by taking her pawn with his knight. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. I don't understand how easy it is for you to just…"

She stared at him, her bloodshot green eyes curious. "To just…?" she prodded.

"To just flirt with everyone the way you do," the Paladin blurted. "I wish you would exhibit some more restraint. It's...it's confusing."

"Is that what's got you all bothered?" Myra's queen swept downward, capturing Danse's pawn. "Check," she announced with a smile, before taking on a more serious expression. "Danse, I was a bartender. Charm's my second nature. You know I don't mean anything by it most of the time, right?"

Danse moved his king to safety next to his queen's bishop. "No," he replied sullenly. "I don't know that for certain." Sometimes, he was so sure, so confident that there was something special between the two of them. But other times, like tonight, he couldn't help but feel that her playfulness was just how she kept people at bay. Some soldiers he'd known, like Maxson, guarded themselves in scowls and fury, protecting their sensitive natures with steel and thorns. Myra's armor was no less effective, even if it was far more pleasant to interact with. Was it possible that she didn't realize what she was doing?

Myra's king-side knight moved to harass his queen. "I promise, Danse, when I'm flirting for real, you'll know." She leaned across the table, her lips pursed gently as she drew close to him. He froze as she removed his hood, tossing it to the floor. Myra ruffled his wavy black hair with one hand before settling back into her seat. "Much better. Now there's a guy I could flirt with."

Danse sputtered awkwardly and moved his queen out of danger, or so he thought. His heart beat furiously as he realized that he'd placed her right in the path of Myra's queen. Fortunately, she didn't seem to notice, as she moved her knight directly beside Danse's queen. In retaliation, Danse advanced a pawn against Myra's queen. "Well, I suppose I'll have to take your fashion sense into account next time I prepare for a mission," he said nervously, trying to make light of the situation.

She snorted, taking his knight with her pawn. "Danse, are you okay? You're not usually this easy to mess with."

He nodded. Was it warm in the cabin? It felt warm. "I need a drink," he muttered, pulling away from the table. Danse tried to slow his breathing, tried to regain control. Ever since he and Myra had come to the cabin, he'd been having a much more difficult time relaxing around her. Without the weight of a mission hanging over their time together, the temptation to throw caution to the wind and just pretend that they weren't in a difficult position was almost overwhelming. For all his stubborn faith in decorum, Danse wanted something to happen. Hell, he needed something to happen. Things couldn't continue in this purgatory their relationship had been wallowing in. One way or another, things were going to come to a head.

But although Danse knew how he felt about Myra, he still had no idea how she really felt about him. Her heavy-handed flirtation should have been a clear indicator of her intentions, and coming from anyone else the Paladin knew, it would have been obvious that she had at least some attraction to him. Things were different with Myra. She was frustratingly hard to read, and her motives were obscured by her charismatic personality. She was a frustrating enigma, and the last thing he wanted to do was to lose her by making assumptions. Danse needed to calm down. He needed to give this time.

The Paladin rummaged in the kitchen cabinets before returning with a can of water for each of them. Myra smiled sweetly at him as she took the drink. "Thanks. It's still your turn, you know. Unless you're forfeiting."

"Hardly," Danse grumbled, taking Myra's king-side rook with his queen. "I don't know the meaning of the word surrender."

"Tell me about it," Myra sighed, moving her knight to capture another pawn. "Check."

"What do you mean by that?" Danse asked, moving his king up to safety.

Myra shifted her queen over two spaces, locking down the space behind him. "I'm just saying, Danse, it wouldn't kill you to learn to relax. Hell, with how stressed out you are all the time, it might even save your life. You're a heart attack waiting to happen."

Danse brought his queen before her king. "And you could stand to learn some caution," he growled. "Check."

Myra moved her queen in front of her bishop with a casual flip of her finger. "If you mean I need to be more careful who my friends are," she grumbled, "trust me, I think I've learned that lesson."

"Have you?" Danse replied, moving his bishop between Myra's knight and his queen.

She countered by moving her queen back a space. "You don't have to sound so skeptical. Check."

"I'm just worried about you, that's all," Danse said as his king fled to C3.

"I can handle myself." Myra moved her queen to H4. "We can keep playing if you'd like, but that's basically mate."

Danse stared at the board in confusion. How had she managed to beat him? Yet there his king was, locked down by her knight and queen. Any additional moves on his part would just be delaying the inevitable. "Well done," he said simply. "It took you the better part of a year, but you won."

Myra smiled cryptically. "I guess I just needed the right motivation," she replied. "Now, about my reward…"

The Paladin blushed. Right. Her reward. "Well, I...uh...how exactly do you want me to…"

She laughed. "It's not that hard, Danse. I mean, you've kissed me before, remember?"

How could he forget? When she'd kissed him in his quarters the night they'd returned from Fort Hagen, he had felt his entire world shift. While it took him months to admit it, it was that moment that made him realize how deeply he cared for her. His desire to be close to her had been difficult enough to handle at the time. Every day they had spent together since had just made his feelings for her grow. There was nothing in the world that he wanted more than to scoop her up and pin her against the wall, kissing her breathless until there was nothing left for her to feel but the love he had for her.

Still, something held him back. He felt like he was taking advantage of her, somehow. Myra was still an emotional wreck. Whatever had transpired earlier in the night was still tormenting her. He could see it in her eyes. As much as he wanted to show her exactly how he felt, he knew it would be crossing a line they could never come back from. Even if he was willing to take the risk, to find out if what he thought she felt for him was real, was that what she really wanted? Was it fair to press the issue?

The Paladin sighed, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her into the sleeping area. She looked up at him, shocked, as he gently laid her down on the bed. "Danse," she murmured, "are you…"

Danse smiled gently down at her. He removed her glasses carefully, setting them on the nightstand. Before she could say another word, he pressed his lips tenderly to her forehead, kissing her softly. "Get some sleep," he replied. "I'll keep watch for a few hours."

The look of confusion and disappointment in her brilliant eyes was palpable, and it took everything in him to stand by his decision. It wasn't what he wanted, and at least for the moment it wasn't what Myra thought she wanted, but Danse wasn't willing to hurt her just to satisfy his own feelings. It wouldn't be right. He loved her too damn much to take advantage of her sadness, even if it was the only way he had to get closer to her. It hurt to leave her side, to head back out on patrol, but it was the right thing to do. Wasn't it?

As the hours ticked away, Danse lost track of the number of times he almost walked back into the cabin to wake Myra up and talk things through. The more time they spent like this without immediate responsibilities, the harder it was for him to forget the bureaucratic nightmare that awaited them back at the _Prydwen_. Myra still hadn't recanted her association with the Railroad, and if they were forced to return with her loyalties still very much unclear, Danse couldn't guarantee that he'd be able to adequately protect her.

He trusted her when she said that she hadn't known the Railroad's bloody history. But now she did, and there was no excuse for her to see Deacon behind his back. While it was clear that their most recent encounter hadn't exactly been a good one, who was to say that the charming spy wouldn't turn her head with his duplicitous words? Danse had faith in Myra, more than she perhaps deserved. But against the wiles of a professional manipulator, he felt almost helpless. Losing her would be bad enough. Losing her to a man like Deacon was unthinkable.

Danse wanted to give her a reason to stay with the Brotherhood, to stay with him. He wanted so badly to tell her how deeply he loved her, but he knew how terribly that could backfire. What if she believed that the Paladin was also manipulating her? It could cost him everything, their entire friendship and working relationship. Was he really prepared to risk that?

No. Danse wasn't about to do anything that would hurt Myra. Even if it gave him a chance at happiness, her peace of mind was more important. In the end, he only returned to the cabin once, just before dawn, to change shifts with her. As she smiled sleepily up at him, fumbling for her glasses, Danse knew in his mind that he'd made the right decision. His heart told a different story, but he locked it down. There was no time for speculation on things that shouldn't be.

When he settled in for a few brief hours of sleep, however, Danse could almost swear that he heard Myra humming gently beside his bed. And as sleep took him into oblivion, he could almost feel her lips press softly against his eyelids, offering up a prayer for pleasant dreams.

* * *

The next day, Danse awoke to the sound of frenzied shouting in the front yard. He leapt to his feet, thankful that he kept his laser rifle by the bed when it was his turn to use it, and careened to the door. He hastily threw the valve on his power armor and eased inside before bolting out of the threshold and into the forest beyond.

"I'll have your head for this, you ugly sack of flying feces!" Myra screamed, waving her hands frantically at a large mutated seagull that sat in a nearby tree, completely indifferent to her insults.

"Myra, what's wrong?" he asked, nearing her side. "Are we under attack?"

"Shoot the damn thing, Danse!" she cried angrily. "If my laundry can't be saved, at least we can save someone else's!"

He looked towards the house, his eyes widening as he saw the clothesline she'd strung from it. Indeed, her precious flannel shirt, as well as a few other items, were coated in white stains which were already beginning to eat away at the fabric.

"That looks like the work of more than one bird," he said, honestly both horrified and impressed by the display. "Perhaps we should search the area."

"Great idea," Myra grumbled. "Thanks. You do that, and I'll try to find more soap. I'm pretty sure that was the last of it, though. And this shit seems more acidic than the bird poop I'm used to."

"It is rather corrosive," the Paladin agreed. "Ingram complains about it eating through parts of the _Prydwen_ all the time. We can go gather resources later today, if you'd like. There's a few stores nearby that we haven't exhausted yet. We might even be able to find you a new shirt."

"I don't want a new shirt, Danse!" she cried. "I like that shirt!"

It was true. Outside of her current outfit, which consisted of a simple black tank top and jeans, he'd rarely seen her out of the green and black flannel. She did occasionally wear the Brotherhood uniform, but only under duress.

The shirt itself was in miserable condition after all the battles it had seen. The original fabric was faded and frayed, held together by stitches and hope. Several bloodstains marred the fabric, a map of Myra's misadventures and battles barely won. Danse was honestly surprised that the shirt had lasted this long.

"We can probably find one like it," he replied. "There's an abandoned _Fallon's_ just a few clicks from here. Wouldn't a new one be better?"

"I don't want one like it," Myra said softly, clutching at the ruined shirt. "I want that one. It's one of the last things I still have from before… before..."

She bit her lower lip, trying to suppress her tears. Myra cradled the worn flannel in her hands, fingers tracing the holes in the fabric like they were bullet wounds on the corpse of a friend.

Danse wasn't sure when he'd gotten out of his armor, but before he knew it, she was in his arms, her too-cold body gripped tightly against him. She turned in his arms to face him, burying her head in his orange uniform, her tears saturating the thin fabric.

"I...I've lost so much," she sobbed. "I know it's just a stupid shirt, but…"

He cradled her head in one hand, his fingers wrapped up in her silky hair. The Paladin tried not to think about how long he'd been wanting to hold her like this. Now was not the time. "Shhh. No, it's nothing to worry about, Myra. Just breathe. We'll find a way to repair it, I promise."

She nodded against him, the heaving of her sobs gradually fading away. Eventually she pulled back, looking up at him with her deep emerald eyes still moist from her outburst. "I'm sorry, Danse. I don't know why I've been crying so much lately, and over such stupid stuff, too. I mean, yes, that shirt's important to me, but..."

"Clearly, it's not just stupid stuff," Danse replied. "The catalyst may have been something minor, but I've seen soldiers lose their minds over far less than a ruined shirt. You are carrying a large burden of real pain. Of course it will find an outlet, whether you allow it to or not."

Myra sighed heavily. "Well, how do you deal with it, Danse? You've seen a lot of hurt in your life, too. How do you keep it all locked down like you do?"

"It's taken me years of practice and discipline," he replied honestly. "Also, I've found that the extermination of wasteland abominations is extraordinarily therapeutic. As is power armor maintenance."

Myra chuckled. "So you're saying I need to get a hobby. Preferably one that involves lots of tools. And murder."

Danse shook his head. "I'm saying that you will need to determine what the most beneficial coping mechanism is for you. But that is not the goal today. Today, you can cry as much as you want."

"Well, as long as you keep holding me like this," she said with a flirtatious smile, "I might take you up on that." His face burned as he realized that his arms were still wrapped tightly around her waist, and he dropped them awkwardly to his sides, releasing her. Myra snickered at him as she wiped her nose with the back of one hand, turning her attention back to the ruined laundry. "Well, maybe you can start by just listening to me rant, like you always do."

"That would be...more than acceptable," Danse replied.

"I suppose I should have thrown this damn thing away months ago," Myra said, surveying the tattered remains of her shirt once more. "I mean, it was mostly destroyed already. Hell, it wasn't in great condition when I got it in the first place."

"If you don't mind me asking, where did you get it?" Danse asked, genuinely curious.

Myra sighed. "Nate gave it to me, I think. I don't remember exactly...but I know it's extremely important to me. When I woke up after leaving the vault, I looked through all the drawers and closets in my house. There wasn't much left. Honestly, I was certain that nothing I treasured remained. But there, in the very back of a dresser, was this shirt. It felt like a miracle, like Nate was sending me a message that I was going to be okay. When I put it on, I felt like I could handle anything, like I was protected. So I guess I just never took it off unless I had to."

Before meeting Myra, Danse would have dismissed such thinking as superstitious nonsense. But now...he'd seen her fight back through impossible odds, had watched her defy death so many times that it was almost scary. Maybe Nate was looking out for her from beyond the grave somehow. Or at least, having a memento of him with her gave Myra the courage to do the impossible.

"I think I might have a solution," Danse said. "May I see the shirt?" Myra nodded, handing it over. Danse pulled a knife from his boot, cutting a large square of fabric from the back of the garment. He folded it carefully into a kerchief, taking care to trim as many loose threads as he could. When it was done, he tied the fabric around her swan-like neck. "It's not ideal," he replied, "but at least it will still be of some use to you. Hopefully Nate would approve."

Myra nodded. "I...I think he would," she agreed. "Thanks, Danse." She lowered herself to the ground, groaning in pain as she laid back in the brown grass. "I always used to love looking up at the trees from below," she murmured. "There's something so peaceful about the way the leaves move against the sky. It's a shame so many of these big ones are dead, now. But at least the sky still looks lovely."

Danse hesitated for a long moment before lying down beside her. She scooted closer, resting her head on his broad chest. "I'm sorry if this is too uncomfortable for you," she said.

"No you're not," he replied, worried that she could hear the frenzied beating of his heart, "but I suppose I don't mind."

She nuzzled tighter against him. "You've always been there for me, haven't you, Danse?" Myra asked softly. "And all this time, I've acted like it didn't matter. I'm sorry for that."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Myra," he replied, trying to decide whether to wrap an arm around her or not. He eventually settled on not. They were close enough as it was.

"I do, though," she replied. "You're a good man, Danse. I've been so caught up in everything, in fixing the ruins of my bombed-out life, that I haven't been the most reliable friend to anyone. I've just been thinking about my own needs, my own fears. But that's not who I was, before all of this. And it's not who I want to be at the end of this road." Myra trembled slightly, her breathing labored. "I'm scared, Danse. I'm scared that the woman I'll be after we take down the Institute will be a stranger to me. I don't want to be some unfeeling robot who has nothing left to care about, just a mother who murdered her own child."

Danse stared up at the trees, collecting his thoughts as best as he could. "That doesn't sound like the Myra Larimer I'm acquainted with," he replied finally. "You may be impulsive and lack self-restraint, but you care very deeply about people. Otherwise, this decision wouldn't bother you the way it does."

"I guess you're right," Myra said. "I just wish things hadn't ended up this way. I wish there was a way for me to stand by everyone I care about. It feels wrong, leaving so many of my friends out in the cold."

"I know," the Paladin replied, finally relenting and putting a comforting arm around her. It had always been so easy, so natural to touch her. From their earliest missions together, there had been a strange ease between Danse and Myra that he hadn't encountered with anyone before. Well, there had been Arthur, but the younger man had stopped clinging to Danse years ago, had grown to rely on him differently. Arthur had been a child then, halfway between a brother and a son to the Knight who watched over him. Things changed when he had been forced into adulthood too early. Danse hadn't been able to protect the last Maxson from the man he had needed to become, and perhaps that was the natural course of such a friendship.

With Myra, the course of their friendship had been different. For a while, Danse had convinced himself that he was playing the older brother to another young person with a destiny greater than one person should bear. But while Arthur's destiny had pulled him ever further away from the Paladin, Myra's seemed determined to bring them closer. She was more than someone for him to protect, now. Myra was...she was someone Danse wanted to spend the rest of his life with, in whatever way he could. The love he had for her had ceased to be friendship ages ago. He could only hope that she somehow, miraculously, felt the same.

"Hey, Danse?" Myra asked, starling him back into the present.

"What is it?" he replied.

"What did you think of me, back when we first met?" she continued. "I'll admit, I've been curious."

Danse sighed. "I thought you were rash, undisciplined, and clearly had a death wish," he said. "I thought you were brave, facing down that horde of ferals with only a pistol, but I'll admit, I had major reservations about working with you. I still don't know what possessed me to offer you a place on my squad."

Myra chuckled. "Yeah, well I thought you were a pretentious asshole with an armor fetish," she shot back. "I mean, I know soldiers. Hell, I married one. But you were the most hardheaded, rigid person I ever met. Why I ever agreed to take you up on your offer, I'll never know." She sat up with a low moan. As she turned to look back at the Paladin, her eyes softened, a strange nervousness haunting their emerald depths. "And what about now?" she asked. "Do you still have reservations about me?"

Danse shook his head. "You've more than proven yourself to be not only a competent soldier, Myra, but a loyal friend as well. I...I trust you. Completely. I'm grateful to whatever temporary insanity made me want to recruit you."

Myra's smile wavered. "I'm grateful too. I can't imagine how I'd be handling any of this without you. That's...that's why I think I've made my decision. I'm going to take the Oath, Danse."

His eyes widened. "Are you absolutely certain? You realize the massive responsibilities that come with the Oath of Fidelity, don't you? You will have to follow every order given to you, without question. If you were tasked with an assault on one of your former allies, you would have to comply."

She nodded. "I know."

"You'd be giving up your neutrality, your autonomy…" Danse sat up, his face stony. "I...I hope your realize that I never wanted to ask that of you."

Myra smiled sadly at him. "I know what I'm giving up, Danse. But I also know that there's something really important that I might gain if I stay."

The Paladin's brow furrowed. "Such as?"

Myra blushed, the rosy tinge of her cheeks lighting up her freckles. "Don't make me say it. I...it's better if I don't."

"Myra, you can tell me anything. I promise not to judge."

"It's nothing bad!' she protested. "At least, I hope it's not." She struggled to her feet awkwardly, nearly falling back to the ground before catching herself on a tree trunk. "Shit, that smarts! It's just…" Myra trailed off, her eyes a thousand miles away. "I think I'm in love with you, Danse."

"You...what?" he replied, shocked. She had to be teasing him. There was no way she could be serious. Danse had never been a lucky man. He couldn't be fortunate enough for her to really care for him that way.

"I mean it," Myra replied, her eyes meeting his nervously. "I wasn't expecting to fall for anyone, not after losing Nate. I never thought I'd find anything like that again. And it's not like it was with Nate, not exactly. It feels different, almost...more real somehow? That sounds wrong," she amended. "I don't know. I just can't keep denying that you mean more to me than just a friend. And I don't expect you to feel the same way. I just thought you should know."

Danse stared at her, slack-jawed. "I… er… I mean, I never realized…"

Myra laughed self-deprecatingly. "What, the kiss I gave you after Fort Hagen didn't give you a clue that I might...?"

Danse shrugged. "Well, people behave erratically when they've been traumatized, Myra. I mean, Haylen kissed me once, too, and I know she's not in love with me." He thought for a moment, his deep brown eyes distant. "She's not, correct?"

"I don't think she's in love with you, no," Myra said. "Not so long as Knight Rhys exists, at least. But that doesn't mean she doesn't love you, Danse. I think she sees you as her big brother."

"And you… don't," he replied.

Myra nodded. "Right."

Danse's mind raced. As much as he'd wanted to hope that Myra felt the same way about him as he felt about her, he hadn't dared to really accept it as a possibility. As thrilled as he was to hear those words from her, the Paladin was caught entirely off-guard. What was he supposed to do now? Pining after her was one thing. Could he really continue the way things were, knowing that his feelings were reciprocated? "I'm going to need to think about this," he murmured. "Is that acceptable? I'm sorry, it's just that I wasn't expecting to hear that from you."

Myra's shoulders drooped. "Well, that's not a complete rejection."

"No!" he shot back. "No, not at all. I…I just need time."

"Of course," Myra said with a heavy sigh. "I won't bring it up again. Not until you want me to."

"I appreciate it," Danse replied. "I...I think I need to take a walk. Will you be all right on your own?"

Myra nodded, her eyes downcast. "I promise, I'll stay put like a good girl and not let any boys into the house. I'm sorry for springing this all on you, Danse. Like I said, I guess I just wanted you to know."

"I'm not upset with you, Myra," the Paladin said. "I promise."

She nodded again, grabbing her pack and heading inside. "Be careful out there," she murmured.

"I will be," he replied, heading towards the lake. Danse's mind reeled as he tried to process what had happened. She loved him? Myra actually loved him? How? Why?

He paced the shoreline of the small reservoir, watching the sunlight dance across the water like children at play. How had he not seen this coming? Yes, Myra wasn't particularly subtle when it came to her flirting, but she flirted with everyone she was close with, men and women alike. It was just part of her charismatic personality. How was he supposed to know when she was teasing and when she was serious?

Besides, why would she ever be interested in him? Myra was the remnant of a lost world, familiar with a way of life Danse had only ever dreamed of. What could he ever offer her that would make up for everything that she had lost? It was absurd that she would have ever grown to care for him in that way.

Yet somehow, over the past year, they had grown closer, had become more than just Paladin and Knight. They'd become true confidants, even friends. Hell, she knew almost as much about him as Arthur did. That in itself was incredible. So how could there be something more than that?

For so long, the thing he feared most in the world was dying in disgrace, or disappointing his superiors. He was an honorable man, a loyal soldier, a firm believer in the justice of the Brotherhood's cause. But somehow, that had changed. There was something he feared more, a fear which had proven itself in small ways countless times over their adventures, most powerfully at the airport the night she stood on that platform in the rain, her eyes begging him to offer her some words of comfort before she most likely would cease to exist.

The thing he feared, more than anything else, was living without Myra by his side. The time they spent away from each other had become a form of torture. He spent most of it worrying about her, willing her back to her rightful place beside him. All he wanted in the world was to love her, to support her in any way that he could. To know that she felt the same, that she was willing to sacrifice so much of what she believed in to be near him...it was beyond astonishing.

Danse wanted to believe that seeing this through was worth the risk. The road before them had never been an easy one, and if their relationship crossed the line into romance, things would only be harder for them both. The Paladin had seen both the good and the bad of relationships inside the Brotherhood. When things worked well, the bond between the two soldiers involved made them nearly unstoppable. But when things went poorly, whole squads were often torn apart in the aftermath. Worse yet, there was the constant threat of death on the battlefield that loomed over such a relationship. All too often, someone was left behind. Danse knew he couldn't bear it if that were him. Would Myra be all right if she outlived him?

Perhaps it was better for things to remain as they were. Danse didn't have to tell her how much he loved her just because she had confessed her feelings to him. The Paladin could still make the choice to protect her, to protect them both. He could lie, could tell her that he just saw her as a friend. Maybe she would struggle with the rejection at first, but in the long run, she would recover.

But Danse knew that was the coward's way out, and he wasn't about to compromise his integrity just to make their lives easier. Myra deserved the truth. More than that, if there was a chance that they could somehow make things work, wasn't that worth risking everything?

Hours passed as the paladin debated the correct course of action, and it was night by the time he returned from his walk, a bundle of nerves and excitement. He wasn't sure what would happen when he talked to Myra, but he knew that if he put off that conversation any longer, he would lose his nerve. The Paladin left his armor just inside the door again, his eyes searching the small space for the woman he loved. She wasn't in the kitchen, so he tried the sleeping area. She was sound asleep when he found her.

Her body was curved protectively in on itself, forming a gentle ball of Myra on the mattress. The young woman's white hair was loose, tossed every which way like there had been an extremely small, localized windstorm at the head of the bed. Danse gently brushed a few thick strands from her slumbering face, softly tucking them behind her small, pale ear. "Myra," he soothed, "wake up."

She moaned softly, the corners of her mouth lifting into a soft smile as she responded to his voice.

Well, that did things to him.

"What is it, Danse?" she murmured, one eye cracking open to look at him.

"I'm sorry to wake you," he replied, "but I wanted to talk."

"It's ok," she replied, wiping the sleep from her eyes and sitting up. "I was awake anyway."

That was a lie, but he decided to let it pass. "Well, if you really meant what you said...I think I'm ready to talk about it."

Myra frowned. "Are you sure? Last time we talked, you sounded like you were going to need a lot of time to think. I haven't been in a coma, have I?"

"No. I…" Danse trailed off, his heart pounding in his ears. "I'm sorry. This isn't easy for me."

"I can see that," Myra replied. "Look, if you're going to tell me we should just be friends, I can take it. Like I said, I just wanted you to know."

The Paladin shook his head. "That's not...I'm not particularly great at expressing my emotions. I'm sure you've realized that by now."

Myra sighed. "You have a terrible poker face, Danse. I always know what you're feeling, even if you don't."

"Then why do we even have to have this conversation?" He growled.

"Because it's important," she replied. "Because I might be reading into things too much, and I want to make sure before I do something we both might regret."

"I suppose that's fair," he agreed. "I'll be honest with you, Myra, I don't know if I completely know how I feel about this…situation. But I do know that you are the most important person in my life, and I don't ever want to be away from you, or see anything hurt you. I don't know if that's love or friendship or some other thing, but I know that whatever I feel when you're close to me, it's strong. So strong that it makes it hard to think about anything else. Does that make sense?"

"If you aren't comfortable with this..."

"No. I am," Danse interrupted. "I just… I haven't cared this deeply about someone in a long time, maybe ever. And it's terrifying to me. You know what the world is like now. We're soldiers. Anything could happen to us in the field. One of us could die in an instant, or worse. I don't know if I can live with that, knowing that I could lose you."

"I understand how you feel," she murmured. "I feel the same way. After I almost lost you at the Castle…" Myra's eyes welled with tears. "If anything happened to you, I don't know what I'd do."

Danse frowned. "Is it alright for us to feel this way, when we know it could put our lives and our mission at risk?"

Myra smiled sadly at him. "That's not how love works, Danse. You can't just choose to shut it off and ignore it, at least not easily. Once you've started to care about someone, to put their happiness above your own, there's nothing you can do to take it back. All you can do is decide what to do with the love you have for them."

"And what is it that you want to do, Myra?" Danse asked nervously.

She thought for a moment. "I…I want to see where this goes," she replied softly. "I want to continue getting to know you, to keep spending time with you. I just want to be by your side as long as I can. Is that okay?"

He nodded. "More than okay."

"Good." She beamed up at him, a faint blush playing about her cheeks. "So," she murmured, "can I kiss you now, or…"

He knelt down beside the bed to meet her, pulling her carefully into his warm, muscular embrace as their lips met. This was not the abrupt, spur-of-the-moment peck Myra had given him months ago. No, this was something wild and ravenous, a surge of sensation that kicked about his spine as she leaned deeper into him, pressing their bodies together. He had never experienced anything like it before, this feeling of connection, of unity. It made him long for all the times they could have shared this before, if only he'd known what he was missing. All Danse knew as he kissed her was that he never wanted this to end. He wanted to know every part of her, to share every part of him with her.

All the fear, all the doubt faded away as though she drew it out of him like poison from a wound. All that remained was peace, was hope, was the promise of a beautiful tomorrow with her beside him. Everything Danse had longed for for so long seemed finally within his grasp, and he could hardly keep himself from crying with the sheer joy of being so completely lucky. He'd never dreamed that Myra would actually be his to cherish. He couldn't have begun to understand what that actually meant, not until this moment.

His mind was at once blank and filled with images of the road before them. Navigating the Brotherhood's fraternization rules would be difficult, but not impossible. And once they were able to be open with their relationship, he would ask her to marry him. It wasn't too soon for that, was it? Did he care if it was? He knew he wanted to be with her, and as long as she agreed, was there any benefit to waiting?

When the kiss finally broke, he pressed his forehead against hers, chuckling weakly. Her own laugh echoed his as they held each other close, rejoicing in the warmth of their affection for each other.

"I love you so much," Myra whispered, stroking his hair.

"I love you too," Danse replied, his heart racing. "I have for a long time now."

"Why didn't you say anything?" she asked, frowning. "Danse, things could have been so much simpler."

"I…" He cleared his throat. "I wasn't certain you shared the sentiment. I didn't want to undermine our relationship."

"I suppose that's fair," Myra replied with a smile, kissing him again. "I'm just glad we ended up here."

"Agreed," Danse murmured against her. "By the way, you asked me about my given name. Do you still want to know it?"

Myra nodded. "If you're comfortable telling me, I really would like to know."

He sighed. "Well, if we're going to be...that is, if we are involved now…"

She laughed. "You make it sound like we're caught up in a legal dispute, Danse. It's not that bad. We're just...us."

"It will take me some time to adjust to this development," he replied sheepishly. "I've never been in a relationship like this before."

"Never?" Myra asked, startled. "But you're a really attractive guy! I was sure all the Brotherhood women were throwing themselves at you. Hell, some of the men too."

"I suppose that's an accurate assessment," Danse said, "though I think you're overselling my attractiveness. But although I'm not exactly inexperienced, I can honestly say that I've never felt this...connected to someone before. Not like this, at least. So it seems only right to tell you. My parents, though what they were thinking I will probably never be able to comprehend, named me Tristan."

Myra pulled away from him, her eyes wide. "Wait. Your name's Tristan Danse? Are you serious? That's ridiculous."

Danse nodded glumly. "How do you think I felt, growing up saddled by that name? My parents left me nothing except for it, and I don't even know why they chose it. If that wasn't bad enough, there was another Tristan in the Brotherhood when I joined up who was extremely well-respected. It took me months to not react when he was mentioned. I eventually just dropped my given name altogether. It was easier that way, I suppose. Now there are only three people alive who know it. You, Arthur, and Cade."

"And probably Quinlan," Myra muttered. "Let's be honest, that guy knows everyone's secrets. But that's not…" She chuckled nervously. "Danse, it's just too big of a coincidence."

"What is?" he asked, frowning slightly.

"It's just that my middle name is Isolde, after my mother's favorite character in the King Arthur stories."

He nodded. "It's a lovely name. What does that have to do with mine?"

"Danse, we've got to get you to a library," Myra replied, laughing.

Danse sighed. Clearly, there was something he wasn't understanding, not like that was a novel occurrence for him. But Myra seemed happy, and for now, that was enough.

"So," she continued once her laughter died down, "can I call you Tristan in private, then?"

"I'd rather you didn't," the Paladin replied. "Like I said, I'm not overly fond of the name."

"Well, if we're really going to…" Myra sighed. "I'd like to call you something other than Danse, I guess. It feels weird calling you by your last name when you kiss me like that."

"Like this?" he mused, pulling her close and gently but earnestly pressing his lips to hers. He could feel her smile against him, and it made his pulse quicken. What a delightful sensation that was.

"Is that a sense of humor you're demonstrating, Paladin?" she teased, her lips ghosting against his cheek. "You're just full of surprises tonight."

"I have been known to make the occasional joke, Knight," he muttered. "You do not have a monopoly on frivolity, in spite of what you may believe."

"Fair enough, _Paladin_ ," she replied with a snort. "Seriously, though, do you have a middle name or something?"

"I'm afraid not," he said. "But if you really feel the need to use my first name, I suppose I don't find it quite so unbearable when you say it. It will certainly take some getting used to. Or..." he trailed off, his eyes distant.

"Or?" Myra asked nervously.

Danse sighed. "My friend Cutler. He always just called me T."

Myra smiled. "T, huh? Well, it's not exactly a sweet pet name, but I guess that suits you, doesn't it?"

Danse nodded. It was strange, hearing Cutler's nickname for him fall from her lips. But somehow, it seemed like an appropriate choice. After all, with the exception of Arthur, they were the two closest people to him. It was oddly fitting that they should call the Paladin by the same name. "I suppose it does."

Myra pulled him closer, holding him tightly. "I'm so happy," she murmured. "Just to be here like this with you is…"

The Paladin pressed his lips to her temple. "I can hardly believe it myself," he replied. "If I could, I would just stay here with you forever."

"That sounds perfect," Myra said. She pulled away, easing herself the rest of the way out of bed. "Right now, though, it's my turn to stand watch. You need to rest too. It's not like you're a machine."

He laughed softly, capturing her arm and kissing her wrist. "Tell that to half of the initiates. I'm pretty sure Aspirant Reinhardt has been telling them I drink motor oil and don't eat any real food."

Myra grinned. "He would. Well, at least I know the truth. Good night, T. Sleep well."

"Good night, Myra," he echoed. "Please be careful."

"I will," she replied. "After all, I've got something to live for, don't I?" She kissed him one last time before slipping out into the kitchen, Righteous Authority slung over her back.

Danse settled into the bed with an overwhelmed sigh. The sheets were warm and smelled of Myra, and he smiled as he wrapped himself in her comforting scent. Somehow, in spite of the battles before them, the Paladin finally felt like everything was going to be alright. With Myra beside him, her love surrounding him, there was nothing he had left to fear. For once, the Commonwealth could look after its own problems. In these last few stolen days, it was finally his turn to be happy.

* * *

**_A/N: FINALLY! It felt like we'd never get to this chapter. Wish I could say it was all sunshine and rainbows from this point on, but hey, let's enjoy it while we've got it! _**

**_NEXT CHAPTER: Deacon prepares to finish the one mission he hoped he'd never have to do: killing the woman he thinks he might love._**


	7. The Bullet With Her Name

**7\. The Bullet With Her Name**

**_Deacon struggles with Myra's betrayal and his own demons as he prepares to end her life._**

* * *

The sun hung low in the sky over the Chestnut Hillock Reservoir, signalling the coming end of another spring day. Finally, the days felt like they'd been getting longer again, the cruel tyranny of winter's night a thing of the past. But for Deacon, crouched on a small tree stand in the nearby woods, there was nothing comforting about the passing of time. He wished that the sun would halt in its tracks, that this day would never come to a close. Perhaps then, he would be free of this awful burden.

For the tenth time that day, he checked over his rifle, made sure it was clean. If he had to go through with this, he at least wanted an accurate shot. He wanted to make things as painless as possible, for all their sakes.

It had taken Deacon almost three days to decide that he couldn't wait any longer to execute Myra. He had no idea how much longer Myra and Danse were going to be isolated in the cabin. Sooner or later, the two of them would either return to the _Prydwen_ or other Brotherhood soldiers would arrive to bring them back by force. The spy couldn't imagine that Maxson was happy about the two of them being absent, especially if rumblings from the Railroad's contacts within the Brotherhood were accurate. Something big was in the works, and when it came to the Brotherhood of Steel, something big usually meant bad news for everyone else.

Deacon was furious at Myra for making the choice she did. He'd thought that she was better than that, that she would understand the importance of maintaining her alliances with as many factions as she could. It was in the Railroad's best interest that she remain passive as long as possible. If she was exposed, or if she turned on the Railroad in earnest, the lives of quite a few agents and synths would be compromised as well. The Brotherhood were determined to destroy any synth and synth-sympathizer in their path. How could she not understand that?

The thing that angered him the most, however, was how she had manipulated the situation to make herself the victim. Deacon was a master manipulator. It was his job, so he more than anyone understood what Myra was up to. Normally, he'd applaud her brilliant espionage technique. She was almost as flawless as he was. But in this context, with Deacon being painted as the villain when all he'd done was try to treat her with respect, had trusted her with the deepest part of himself...it was disgusting. She'd given him hope, had treated him like someone worthy of being cared for. When Myra had told him they were still friends, that she wasn't afraid of his past, he had believed her. He had almost begun to hope that there was a way forward for them, that he could trust her completely. For a brief moment, he'd even been happy. But within minutes, she'd thrown it all away because of what? A few dead soldiers, that Deacon himself hadn't even hurt? He didn't understand it.

That was a lie. Deacon did understand it. Because in the end, it hadn't been about him at all. It had been about Myra's relationship with Danse. Myra had chosen her port in the storm, and Deacon had outlived his use. She'd decided that being with her Paladin was more important than the fate of the entire Commonwealth, than the lives of everyone else she'd called her friend. It was selfish. It was cruel. And if that was who Myra had decided to become, maybe it really was for the best if she died.

What hurt the most was that it hadn't had to be this way. Deacon had thought better of her, had thought she was strong enough to break the mold, to be the leader the Commonwealth needed. But in the end, she was a worse coward than the spy himself, so caught up in her own fear and trauma that she didn't care who got hurt as long as she felt safe. Myra had caved to the pressure of her existence rather than rising above it, had taken the easy way out instead of doing the impossible and bringing peace to the Commonwealth. Deacon knew she was capable of more. Hell, as an outsider, she was maybe the only person really capable of changing things, of seeing past the rhetoric and into the heart of the organizations that feuded for the Commonwealth. But instead of being larger than her pain, she had allowed herself to be swallowed by it. Now, the dream was all but lost.

Deacon watched Myra through the scope of his sniper rifle as she prepared dinner, laughing brightly at something Danse said. They looked so happy, he realized, just two people honestly enjoying each other's company. No wonder she'd turned her back on Deacon, on the Railroad. Myra was radiant as always, her short white hair now neatly trimmed into an elegant bob cut that hung about her cheeks. She wore a simple green dress similar to the one she'd been wearing that night in Salem, an acquisition from the nearby _Fallon's_, and it sent a surge of heartache through him as she hovered between the counter and her hot plate. If the house she was cooking in hadn't been ruined by atomic fire, she would have been the picture of a cheery pre-war housewife, hearthkeeper of the perfect little family.

Maybe in a different life, Deacon would have been the one she was cooking for. If she'd made another choice, or if he'd never driven her away, they could have been happy, couldn't they? Yeah, their relationship wouldn't be perfect, but Deacon understood her, and part of him believed that she really understood him. Danse, for all his virtues, never would know Myra the way Deacon did. How could he? His demons were of a different breed, and his way of dealing with them was different as well. In the end, as much as the Paladin might truly love her, he couldn't help her grow. Not the way Deacon could. The spy and Myra deserved each other. They'd have found a way to make each other better. Wouldn't they have?

Deacon wanted so badly to believe that, but he'd always known that any relationship between them would be doomed from the start. Myra and Deacon were both just too broken for each other. They'd tear each other apart in the same breath as proclaiming their love for each other, and neither of them would do it deliberately. It was just who they were as people. Deacon knew himself well enough by now to understand that, even though he wished with all his heart that it wasn't true. It was one of the reasons he'd tried to avoid getting too attached to her. Hell, it was one of the reasons why he'd failed to avoid getting too attached to her. She was dangerous, unpredictable, destructive, selfish - all the things he hated about himself in one gorgeous package. Loving her was a perverted form of narcissism, one that would never have done either of them any good. But still, he loved her, because he knew her...because they were the same.

Deacon had spent so many years trying to be better than he'd been, to overcome the monster he'd let himself be after losing Barbara. And in a lot of ways, he'd grown, he'd changed. The dark parts of him would never go away, not entirely. But he'd learned to use them for good, had dedicated his life to a worthy purpose. He had hoped that he could help Myra do the same, that he could mold her into an agent as cunning as him and twice as compassionate. She had shown so much potential, had demonstrated moments of true empathy. Together romantically, they would have been a disaster. But as partners? God, they could have been truly incredible. It killed him to know that she'd turned her back on all that.

Myra turned away from the window, placing a pair of steaks on two mismatched old plates, a hearty spoonful of Instamash on the side of each. Deacon felt his stomach growl, even though he couldn't smell the food from this distance. He felt as sick as he was hungry. It was like looking into a world he could never know, like an adult watching a puppet show for children. The spy wanted to believe in the magic. He really did. But all he could see were the strings.

What made it all the more unbearable was that part of him still believed in Myra, still hoped against all odds that she would come to her senses. All it would take was a signal, a sign, anything, and he'd drop everything to come up with an extraction plan for her. The Railroad could hide her from the Brotherhood. He hadn't lied to her about that. Yes, it would be beyond dangerous, and Dez would throw a fit, but if Myra wanted to come in from the cold, he would welcome her with open arms. Well, there would be a lot of yelling first. But his arms would be so open.

Maybe Myra really didn't know what she was doing. In Deacon's experience, survivors of trauma often manipulated others in order to feel safe. Hell, he'd done the same, once he'd gotten all the murder out of his system. It was why he was so damn good at his job. If that was the case, there was still time to reach her, still time to fix this horrible nightmare. It would take time for her to change her habits, but it was possible. And who better than Deacon to show her how to fight past her fears, to teach her how to use her pain to rescue others?

But time was running out. It wouldn't be long now before any chance of redemption would be gone, forever. If Deacon was honest with himself, they were well beyond that point already. He sighed, his mind taking him back to picnics promised and fleeting moments of closeness. His imagination conjured the feeling of her lips against his, the scent of her hair. Had that truly all been a beautiful lie, a story shared between conmen who had bought into their own press too much? Or was there something there that was real, that was worth fighting for?

It didn't matter, either way, he realized. No matter how much he cared for her, Myra had still started down a road she couldn't come back from. It was in her best interest for Deacon to put her down now, before she herself realized the monster she was on the verge of becoming. At least then she could die with her humanity intact, with her loyalties still untarnished. No one besides him and the two people in the cabin knew what had transpired there, the decision she had made. Deacon couldn't save the person he cared about the most. But he could save her legacy.

His thoughts conjured the image of his only other friend, the wisecracking sniper he'd grown so fond of. What would MacCready say, after the job was done? Would Deacon have to kill him, too, just in case he figured out the truth? He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. No. He couldn't think about that now. Mac wasn't a loose end unless the younger man dug too deep, and even then, there was a chance that Deacon could still protect him. He couldn't lose them both. Myra was already one death too many. Mac was unacceptable collateral damage. If karma came for Deacon, the spy would probably just ask Mac to finish the job. Hell, it was going to be tempting enough to off himself after what he had to do. Some sins, even if they were necessary, were just too big to carry.

As Myra and Danse shared stories over the dinner table, the spy felt his hand tremble against the side of his rifle. It was bad enough that he had been forced into this position. Now, he had to decide which of them to kill first. He knew that he would be in less danger if he eliminated Danse first. After all, the man was a Brotherhood killing machine, and the Paladin would be able to locate Deacon's nest far quicker than Myra would. She was brilliant, in many ways, but lacked the training that Danse had. Myra would react with confusion and fear first, which would give him time to reload.

But Deacon couldn't bear the idea of killing Myra last. He wanted to dispatch her quickly, to ease her suffering. If Danse died in front of her, Myra's last few moments would be filled with horror and heartache, and as far as Deacon was concerned, she had seen more than enough of both. And if she did figure out who it was that had taken Danse from her...Deacon didn't want her last thoughts of him to be filled with malice. As bad as things were between them at this moment, he wanted her to remember him fondly.

"Silently and hopelessly I loved you," Deacon recited, aiming his sniper rifle at the back of Myra's head. It would be easier this way, he thought, if he couldn't see her face. Just one gentle movement of his finger, and he'd be able to move on with his life. Another mistake corrected, another job well done.

"Goodbye, Myra," he whispered. The spy exhaled slowly, checked his aim, and fired.

* * *

**_A/N: Hey, all! Sorry for the short chapter, but hey, at least it's a day early, right?_**

**_I do genuinely feel for Deacon. Honestly, he has a pretty good head on his shoulders, especially now that the blinders are off, and Myra did put him in a hell of a position by making the choice she did. Here's hoping he can find a way to live with his choices as well._**

**_NEXT CHAPTER: MacCready realizes that Myra isn't going to keep her promise, and decides to clear out Med-Tek on his own._**


	8. The Desperate Man

**8\. The Desperate Man**

**_MacCready makes the difficult decision to run Med-Tek with the help of Zev's brother, Dov._**

* * *

MacCready huddled in the house that had become his, cursing the radstorm outside. He'd never liked storms in general, but the poisonous green haze that came with radstorms always gave him the creeps. It reminded him of some of the ghost stories he and other residents of Little Lamplight told each other around the fire, of phantom mungos come to vanish the smallest of them into the night. He didn't believe in ghosts, not exactly. But reality was far more dangerous than any children's tale.

He'd been in the bustling trade city of Starlight for too long. People were starting to get comfortable with his presence, and that wouldn't do. Ever since he'd grown up, he'd avoided settling down with anyone he didn't fully trust. That was why, when Heather had invited him and his family to move to Cheverly, he'd taken her up on the offer. No one deserved to be alone. But normal town living wasn't for a man like him, the man he'd been forced to become. The Lone Wanderer- less lone, by that point- understood that. She'd shared his sentiments exactly, and had established her little compound far away from civilization in the ruins of a forgotten town just off the caved-in Orange Line of the old metro. It suited both of their families just fine, and if it wasn't for Duncan's illness, MacCready might have even stayed there permanently and given up his life as a hired gun. Him, a full-time farmer! That'd be the day!

It wasn't just the terrible thought of settling down that made MacCready ancy, however. It had been almost two months since Myra had promised to meet him in Starlight, and he was beginning to get tired of being stranded. For the first few weeks, he'd been patient, had trusted that she would arrive soon. But now...too much time had passed. Grass was growing under his ass, and Duncan still was in danger, if not already dead. MacCready couldn't wait forever. Whether he liked it or not, he had to go to _Med-Tek Research_ on his own.

As the storm continued to rage outside, he grabbed a can of yellow paint he'd been saving to use for oil and dipped his index finger into the viscous, rancid substance. MacCready struggled to fingerpaint legibly, his arm still unbearably stiff from his nightmare encounter with Lori. While he'd been training nearly every day to get his mobility back to an acceptable level, the deep scars that ran the length of his forearm still ached, especially in weather like this. All the same, he managed to leave a decent enough note on the wall above his bed.

_My,_

_Your late. Went to Med-Tek. Do what you want._

_Mac_

He wiped his hand on the stained mattress beside him with a disgusted look. Well, it wasn't the worst thing he'd ever stuck his hand in, but it sure was up there. Amazing what 200 years could do to paint. It made him wonder what the rest of the Commonwealth had been like before nuclear war and decay had transformed it into its current sniper didn't like to speculate about things like that too much. After all, knowing more about the past didn't do a hell of a lot to change his present circumstances. But with the radstorm raging outside, what else was there for him to do?

MacCready dumped out his backpack, reorganizing his scant belongings by candlelight. Extra ammunition - for both his sniper rifle as well as a variety of other weapons in case he was in a pinch - rained down on the bed in a sparkling cascade. He really should take the time to organize his ammo stash better, but that was a boring task if he'd ever known one, and for the most part, he didn't have to worry about needing the spare rounds right away. There was a reason he wore most of his extra bullets on belts around his person. It made reloading faster, and had the great bonus of making him look a little more intimidating.

The sniper sighed sadly as he found the little wooden soldier he carried with him. It had been the first thing Lucy had ever given him, a simple but thoughtful gift she'd carved and painted herself. MacCready treasured the figure, even though he didn't take the time to look at it often. It was a symbol of Lucy's love for him, that incredible, improbable connection between them, and sometimes when he held it, he could almost hear her sweet laughter in his ear. Other times, all he felt was shame. The little soldier was also an ever-present reminder that, for the years they had together, Lucy hadn't known him. Not completely. He'd lied to her, this girl who adored him, had told her he was a soldier because he was terrified that she'd run from him if she knew that he was just a hired killer. Hell, maybe it would have been better if she had. Then maybe Lucy would still be alive out there somewhere, happy in the peaceful life she'd always wanted.

God, he missed her so much. Lucy was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he was certain that he was just about the worst thing that had ever happened to her. If only things had been different. If only…

MacCready choked back tears, tucking the little soldier into a small inner pocket in his pack. It didn't matter. Speculating about what might have been didn't change the situation that he was in now. He had a responsibility to save their son. Duncan was all that mattered now. He double-checked to make sure he had the access codes Sinclair had given him. It would suck to get all the way into the facility only to find himself without a way to the lab underneath. Such negligence was unthinkable with Duncan's life on the line.

The sniper gathered up some rations from the safe under his bed. He wasn't the biggest fan of potted meat, but he'd stumbled on a cache full of the greasy crap a few weeks ago and it was too good of a food source to pass up just because it tasted awful. He tossed in a couple packs of gumdrops as well, a reward for choking back the putrid meat, and added a few cans of purified water. The days were getting warmer, and dehydration in the wasteland was no joking matter.

Once he'd finished packing, there was nothing left to do but wait for the storm to pass. When it was clear, he'd slip out of town, and with any luck, he'd reach Malden in a couple days. Then it was just a matter of getting past a shit-ton of feral ghouls and who knew what else after that, bypassing the security, and getting the cure for Duncan's disease. Seemed simple enough, if MacCready didn't mind coming back a few pieces lighter. Yeah. This was gonna be a breeze.

MacCready sat on the floor of his shack, leaning against the wall with a heavy sigh. He knew the odds as they really were, and they weren't great. Hell, even with Myra's help, it would probably be a suicide mission. But she at least had this uncanny ability to survive battles like that, and he'd had faith that together, they might be able to bring the cure back to his son. Yeah, he knew the odds, all right. But he also knew the odds that Duncan faced without that cure, and he couldn't bear the thought of his son dying hundreds of miles away while he just sat on his ass waiting for reinforcements that were looking increasingly unlikely to show.

He wasn't sure what had happened to Myra. Had the Institute killed her or detained her? That was a big possibility, and the one that painted her in the best light. But what if she'd come back to the Commonwealth already? That left two equally awful possibilities: either Myra had forgotten her promise, or MacCready and his son mattered so little to her that she decided not to show up. On the one hand, it hurt to think that she'd forget something so important. On the other...well, that made her a monster, like so many other awful, selfish assholes in the wasteland. MacCready had finally found someone he thought he could rely on, who might be a flake but at least gave a shit about the people around her. If he was wrong about that…

Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the wall, and MacCready realized that the storm had faded. It was time to leave. He grabbed his pack and sniper rifle, leaving behind everything he didn't immediately need. Minuteman security around Starlight was tight. Chances were slim that anyone here would try to rip him off. The shotgun trap primed at the doorway was deterrent enough.

It would have been easier for him to sneak away under cover of darkness, but MacCready hated traveling at night. It was too easy for someone to sneak up on him, and as a sniper, he preferred to be the one getting the drop on others. He crept out of his house, taking care to lock the door behind him just as an extra warning not to mess with his crap. If someone did break in, they deserved what was coming to them.

MacCready glanced warily about the city, trying to plan his route to the gate. The months after its founding had been kind to Starlight, and the once mole rat-infested old drive-in had become something of a haven for traders and travelers from across the commonwealth. Stores had cropped up near the entrance to the fortified city, and construction on a hospital for the northwestern district of the Commonwealth was well underway just west of the old diner and projection booth. As Sanctuary's prominence as the former capital of the new Minutemen faded, more and more people were moving instead to Starlight. In another few months, the once-small settlement would be unrecognizable.

Already, the rows of houses near the protection of the old screen had become a jumbled hive of interconnected shacks that rose behind the screen like caves on a cliff face. Ladders and stairwells were scattered throughout, a confusing web of passageways for all but the most seasoned resident of Starlight. Still, the folks who lived in the chaotic shantytown seemed happy enough, and there was something to be said for the spectacular views shared by those whose homes were near the top of the hive, even if the climb was less than ideal. MacCready, for his part, lived near the bottom. It wasn't that he hated heights, exactly. No, it was more that he'd always felt more comfortable closer to the ground. Spending his formative years living in a cave had made him value claustrophobia. Besides, it made it easier for him to come and go as he needed to. At least that was the hope.

He was halfway across the makeshift residential zone when he heard his name being called frantically, and he sighed in frustration as he recognized the voice. Great. The one person he'd been hoping to avoid.

"MacCready! Mac!" cried Dov, the general goods merchant, waving to the sniper. The younger man left his shop, running frantically to catch up with MacCready. He grinned broadly, panting and wheezing, his long dark curls mussed by the wind. "Some storm, wasn't it?"

The sniper didn't dislike Dov. In fact, he was rather fond of the young trader. But unlike most people in the Commonwealth, the Stern brothers weren't great at staying out of other people's business. Dov would ask questions, and MacCready wasn't in the mood for answers. "I've seen worse," MacCready replied. "You stayed out of it, right? You know Zev would be pissed if you grew an extra hand."

Dov laughed. "Sure, but I'm the one who'd be laughing with the extra help around the shop," he joked. "You know Zev. He worries too much. Sometimes I think he thinks he was the firstborn."

As far as MacCready was concerned, Zev was right to worry about his older twin. He hadn't known Dov before the mob had beaten him half to death in Lexington. According to Zev, Dov had been a typical big brother, brave and protective and even a little mean. But after the incident, the boy MacCready knew was kind and gentle, almost putting Zev to shame. Maybe he really had been brain-damaged by the assault. Or maybe Zev just didn't know his brother as well as he thought he did. "It's just 'cause he loves you," the sniper responded, settling in for the long haul. Might as well humor the kid. "Have you heard anything from him recently?"

Dov nodded, his light brown eyes glimmering with happiness. "Got a letter a few days ago. Apparently, the General gave him his new assignment, and he's coming home! We're gonna be able to see each other again!"

"That's great!" MacCready exclaimed. "I'm happy for yo-" he froze as the rest of Dov's words sunk in. "Wait. The General?" he asked, his eyes wide in shock. "Myra's back in the Commonwealth?"

The shopkeeper nodded, and MacCready felt his heart sink. So she was back after all, and already back to work on whatever agenda of her own she was after. The sniper shouldn't have been surprised. Outside of Heather, no one of importance had ever cared about him or his family. Why would they? He was just a hired gun, a human shield. People just used men like him to soak up bullets and discarded them when they were too injured to work. That was the world he had always known. It had been stupid of him to think that this client had been any different. Myra had charmed him, had talked a good game, but in the end, he'd been an idiot to put his faith in her.

MacCready sighed, trying to ignore the surge of nerve pain in his arm. Of all the times for the damn thing to act up, why now? Was it the change in weather? "Well, I'm glad she's okay," he said through gritted teeth. "Say hi to Zev for me when he gets here, okay?"

Dov frowned. "Are you leaving, MacCready?"

The sniper nodded. "I've got some business to take care of. Not sure when I'll be back."

The young man sighed. "Zev'll be sad he missed you." Suddenly, Dov's face perked up. "Wait. I have a great idea! I could come with you, and then you'll be done faster. If we're lucky, we'll be back before Zev's squad gets here! He said it'd be about a week, since they need to check in at Sanctuary before he'll be able to come home."

MacCready shook his head. "That might be the worst idea you've ever had, Dov. It's really dangerous where I'm going."

"All the more reason to take me with you!" Dov protested. "You'll do better with someone to watch your back, and you know it. I might not be as much help as someone like you, but I know my way around a gun. Had to kill a lot of pests around the farm, before Zev and I were run off."

"No," MacCready replied adamantly. "It's too risky."

"Please, Mac?" the younger man begged, his eyes wide. "It's been too long since I got the chance to fight. Zev's gone off to join the Minutemen. I can't protect him any more. But you're the man who saved our lives. At least give me the chance to pay you back."

The sniper sighed heavily. The _Med-Tek_ job would go easier with two people. That was absolutely true. And he knew a thing or two about feeling out-of-place, feeling like his family had moved on without him.

When he'd first left Little Lamplight, he'd done what was expected, had made the dangerous pilgrimage to Big Town where the other mungo-fied former residents of the caves lived. He'd only stayed a couple weeks before he'd moved on. Things were...different there. While the kids he'd left behind were reliable, brave, and prepared to handle any disaster that came their way, something had changed when the former residents had grown up. Out in the Capital Wasteland, they needed to become wolves, ready to fight against the forces that would destroy them. Instead, they had become sheep. MacCready had tried to remind them of who they were, of how resilient they could be if they just worked together again. But something about being out under the big, unforgiving sky had weakened their resolve, had made them timid where they had once been bold. And he knew full well that if he stayed, he would end up just like the rest of them.

So he'd left, had struck out on his own with only his wits, his tenacity, and his rifle. And while the road had never been an easy one, MacCready had endured, had grown, had changed into something stronger than he'd been. Like the boy-mayor MacCready had been, Dov was desperate to prove that he could still be strong, could carve his own path now that his loved ones were under someone else's protection. Could the sniper really deny Dov the chance to grow and thrive just because he was afraid to put the trader in harm's way?

MacCready thought again about Heather, about the day he'd finally found her again. She hadn't told him he was too young, or that fighting with her wasn't safe. She'd taught him everything she knew about surviving in the Mungo world, had given him a chance to prove himself. Hell, she'd helped him book his first contracts, even if she hadn't approved. Should he deny Dov that same courtesy? It wasn't good for a man to feel useless, to feel like a victim. Sooner or later, the fight came for everyone. Perhaps it was better for Dov to run into battle, rather than wait for it to find him. At least he'd have MacCready to watch his back this way.

"Are you sure you're up for this?" the sniper asked his would-be companion. "I know you're still having trouble with your arm."

Dov nodded eagerly. "Well, so are you, aren't you? Between the two of us, I know we'll manage."

"Fine," MacCready said, resigned. "You can come. But you have to listen to everything I say, okay? I don't want you to do anything stupid and get yourself killed. Zev would murder me in a second if I let anything happen to you."

"I promise!" Dov cried, nearly dancing with excitement. "I'll go get my things and close up the shop! I promise, Mac, you won't regret this!"

"I really hope not," MacCready mumbled as Dov dashed back to _Starlight Discoveries_ , the shop he'd opened with his brother before the younger twin had gone off to play soldier. The last person who'd told him that had been Myra, and MacCready wasn't certain yet if he regretted trusting her. He really wanted to stay positive until he knew the whole story. There might still be a good reason why she had been delayed. Hell, maybe he and Dov would run into her on the road.

Myra wasn't the most reliable person MacCready had ever met, but she did care about him. He truly believed that. After she and Deacon had saved him from Lori, she'd promised that she'd always be there for him when he needed her, that he was one of her best friends. Maybe the drugs had made him more trusting, but he'd believed her. He'd believed every word.

She respected him, or at least she'd faked it convincingly. Myra had fought for him when he was injured, had done her best to help him when MacCready was terrified that he would never shoot again. Myra bore scars on her body that were a testament to the value she placed on MacCready's life. Of course she would come through for him, if she could. Something must have happened.

Even if she'd done the unthinkable and abandoned him, MacCready owed her too much to just discard their friendship. Perhaps this favor - although to him it was the only one that really mattered - had just been one too many to ask. He thought back to his conversation with Danse from months before, when the Paladin had taken him to the bathhouse. Danse had told the sniper to be more responsible, to not drag Myra down with him. And MacCready knew that the soldier had a point. There was a hell of a lot riding on Myra's shoulders right now. Three very disparate groups of people relied heavily on her services, and if that wasn't enough, she had her own problems to deal with too. MacCready couldn't expect her to always be there for him.

Still, he did expect Myra to keep her promises. That was what bothered him the most about not hearing from her. They'd made a deal before going after the courser together that she would help save Duncan if MacCready helped save Shaun. But their agreement hadn't just been a business transaction. It had been a promise between friends that they would help each other protect their kids. Could Myra really have turned her back on something that meant so much to both of them?

MacCready nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt a hand on his back. He cried out in alarm, whipping around and punching his would-be-assailant square in the jaw. Dov grunted in pain, his light brown eyes welling with tears as he clutched his jaw. "Oww! What was that for?"

"I'm sorry!" MacCready exclaimed. "You startled me."

"Man, you're twitchy," Dov replied. "But I don't think anything's broken, so it's okay." The trader held up a satchel. "I'm all packed. Let's go!"

The sniper nodded, trying to calm his unease. In the end, it didn't matter why Myra wasn't here. All that mattered were the facts. Myra hadn't showed up, and he needed to do whatever he could to save Duncan on his own. He and Myra could have words later, after the job was done.

* * *

MacCready could feel the little hairs on the back of his neck stiffen as they approached the medical research facility. It wasn't just a matter of something being off. Everything about the damn place was off. He'd tried to gain access to the facility a few different times now, and in each case, he'd barely made it inside before he was woefully outnumbered. With Dov by his side, clutching his shotgun awkwardly as he shadowed the sniper, MacCready knew his chances were a little better. But all the same, he dreaded what waited inside.

"This place is creepy," Dov murmured, flipping his curls out of his eyes.

"Yeah," MacCready agreed. "Creepy, and full of ferals. I told you tagging along was a bad idea. Now are you going to go home and wait for Zev, or are you still sure you wanna help me?"

The younger man gritted his teeth. "I'm staying, Mac. Like I said, I owe you. Our dad always taught Zev and I that you don't ever take a debt for granted. If I leave you here alone, what kind of example does that set for Zev? You're our friend, and friends look out for each other. I won't let you take this on alone."

The sniper smiled worriedly at his companion. He appreciated the sentiment, a rare one in these days, but it did little to ease his concern for Dov's safety. "I can't ask you to risk your life for this," he said cautiously.

Dov chuckled. "You haven't asked. And you don't have to. Even if you told me to leave, I'd follow you. That's what friends do. So stop trying to change my mind, and tell me what we're doing here."

MacCready sighed. He knew Dov wasn't exaggerating. Zev was stubborn enough, in his puppy dog way. The older Stern, though kind, was far more immovable. It was too late to ask him to turn back now. "Fine. Look, I didn't want to get into this with you, but if you're coming along anyway, I suppose you deserve to know. I've got a son back in the Capital Wasteland, but he's really, really sick. Somewhere in this building is the only thing I've heard about that can cure him. I've been trying to get to it for a while, now, but there's just too damn many ferals in the way. I asked Myra to come with me, but it looks like she had other plans. So I've got to try it alone again."

"Not alone," Dov corrected, placing a large, tanned hand on the sniper's shoulder. "I might not be the General of the Minutemen, but if your family's in trouble, that's all I need to know. We'll get that cure, Mac. No matter what. I won't let you down."

MacCready nodded awkwardly, "Look, I'm sorry for trying to get you to leave. I guess...I'm really not used to people caring about me." It was true. One thing he'd learned since leaving Little Lamplight was that out here, no one gave a shit about you. It was better to expect less than nothing from people than to hope that they would show you any decency.

The sniper had believed when he met Myra that she was different, that like Heather she was the sort of friend he could rely on. And although she had failed him when it mattered the most, he still wanted to believe that she meant what she said. Dov being here proved to him that such kindness was possible. Why Myra had failed to show him the same kindness this time around was her business to explain if he survived long enough to ask her.

"Well," Dov said softly, readying his shotgun, "I guess we should get to it. I don't know about you, but I'd like to get out of here before it gets dark. Old hospitals are the worst at night."

"They sure are," MacCready agreed. "Don't just charge in right away, though. There's a large horde of ferals that like to gather in that parking garage next door. We rush in, and that'll be it." He fiddled in his pack, extracting a few grenades and offering them to Dov. "You ever use one of these before?"

Dov shook his head, his eyes wide.

MacCready chuckled. "Well, you ever throw a baseball before?"

The other man nodded. "Yeah. Zev and I used to play catch all the time."

"Well, it's just like that. Just pull the pin, toss it into the horde, and get out of the way. Boom! Fireworks. Your arm good enough to do that?"

Dov nodded as he took the grenades carefully. "It won't be far, but, yeah. I can still throw. What are you going to do?"

MacCready grinned. "I'm gonna lure those bas...um, those creeps out," he replied, gesturing with his sniper rifle. "I'll send 'em this way, then you start chucking those grenades when they gather near the gate. Don't worry. I'll cover you."

"So what was your plan if you didn't have anyone watching your back?" Dov asked in mild alarm.

"Same plan, really," the sniper replied. "Just a lot more juggling."

The younger man sighed. "No wonder you haven't been successful before. All right, then. Let's get this done."

MacCready nodded, scrambling up to the second story of a bombed out building across the street that looked like it used to be some kind of bookstore. He quickly found a good vantage point, setting up as quietly as he could. Now was the moment of truth: had his aim improved since clearing out _Greentech Genetics_ with Myra and Danse?

For a moment, he regretted not bringing the heavy brace Myra had designed for him. However, the damned thing was cumbersome, not to mention difficult for him to strap on by himself. He really wanted to be able to shoot without it. MacCready had been practicing since he'd returned to Starlight, and his hit record on old tin cans had improved dramatically. He wasn't nearly as good as he had been, but he was still a decent shot with still targets. But moving ones were a bigger challenge, and he would be facing a lot of those at _Med-Tek_.

He braced his trusty old sniper rifle on the edge of a caved-in wall, using the structure to hold the gun steady. His hand trembled as the muscles in his arm resisted being held still, but the wall helped compensate somewhat. MacCready peered through his scope, searching the compound for ferals to target. As he'd suspected, there were quite a few targets to choose from. He decided on a particularly ugly one, a female in what looked like it had once been a lab coat. She was meandering slowly near a group of other ferals, her crazed eyes searching the area for food while she jerked and gurgled towards the parking garage. MacCready exhaled slowly, keeping his scope trained on her head, then gently squeezed the trigger. The feral's neck exploded in a burst of crimson and grey, and her headless body toppled over into the parking lot. It wasn't exactly what he'd been aiming for, but hey, a kill was a kill.

MacCready fixed his sights on Dov, who was standing by the gate with a grenade already in his hand. The young man's body quivered with anticipation as the startled horde lumbered towards the entrance, all fury and hunger. Dov pulled the pin, hurling a frag grenade into the middle of the swarm before retreating backwards, his shotgun gripped tightly in his good hand. One good-sized explosion later, and a handful of ferals lay broken on the ground before the shopkeeper. Dov whooped in excitement, firing a pair of shells at one of the survivors. MacCready shook his head. This was no time to get cocky. There were still at least a dozen ghouls between them and the entrance.

The sniper trained his rifle on a one-armed feral who was dangerously close to Dov, taking him in the shoulder. He cursed under his breath at the bad shot, but it had the intended effect of breaking Dov from his showboating. The trader finished the monster off before loosing another grenade at the incoming horde. This one bounced off of the hood of a car before exploding, sending metal and carnage through the air.

"That car's gonna blow!" MacCready yelled, hoping Dov could hear him over the snarls of the horde. "Run!"

Thankfully, Dov either heard him or realized the danger himself, and he scurried away towards MacCready's nest, his eyes wide. Within moments, the courtyard was a cataclysm of flame and shrapnel as a chain reaction blew one vehicle after another. The explosion was so violent that MacCready lost his footing, falling backwards on his ass as his rifle clattered to the ground two stories beneath him. He cried out in alarm, struggling to regain his footing. "Dov! You okay, pal?"

"I'll live!" groaned the shopkeeper from somewhere below. "Got the...ugh...got the wind knocked out of me, though."

MacCreeady sighed in relief, clambering down to find his rifle. Fat lot of good the sniper nest did him without his gun. He coughed as acrid smoke from the destroyed vehicles filled the air, destroying both his lungs and his visibility. Damn gun had to be around somewhere.

As he felt around in the rubble, his fingers touched a strip of braided fabric, and he grasped it tightly. The strap of his rifle, it had to be. MacCready moaned in disgust as he came away with a much more gruesome prize, however. What he'd thought was his rifle was in fact the half-burnt arm of a feral, putrid, irradiated flesh stinking and dripping with black blood. He tossed the limb aside, searching the area much more carefully. He'd been lucky that the arm wasn't still attached to a ghoul.

After what felt like hours, he managed to find his gun, dinged and dusty, but mostly intact. MacCready smiled, dusting it off before slinging the old sniper rifle over his shoulder. "That's it, old girl," he murmured. "We've been through worse, right?" The gun, of course, did not reply.

Now that he was armed once more, MacCready searched for Dov. It didn't take long to find the young man. He was leaning against the wall of the building, a wet kerchief covering his nose and mouth as he coughed through it. He held his shotgun loosely in his other hand, barrel pointed downwards at a recently killed ghoul. "That was...wow," he said, his voice muffled by the cloth. "And you do stuff like this all the time? I think I might have gotten into the wrong business."

MacCready rolled his eyes. "Pretty sure merchants have a longer lifespan," he chided. "Trust me, this sort of shi...um, this kind of thing gets real old after a while."

"So why do you do it?" Dov asked. "I mean, I get that it's personal this time, but why do you risk your life for money?"

"It's what I'm good at," the sniper answered. "Man's gotta make a living somehow. Especially with a family at home."

"I suppose that makes sense," the trader replied. "I guess what I'm asking is...um, do you enjoy it? Like, is being a gun for hire what you want to do with your life?"

MacCready frowned. "Where's this coming from? Don't tell me you're thinking about taking up contracts just because you got to toss a few grenades around!"

"No!" the young man replied. "No, I mean, it's not that exactly. Just...I never saw myself running a shop, you know? The whole thing was Zev's idea. He's the one who's good with customers. People really like him. I've never...I've never been like that. I guess I just wondered if you do what you do because you love it, or because you have to?"

The sniper frowned. "Does it really matter? I mean, it brings in caps, and it's a service people need. Same with your shop. Why, is there something you'd rather be doing?"

"I don't know," Dov sighed. "That's the problem. I want to keep the shop going, because it made Zev so happy that I was running it while he was away. It makes him feel like I'm okay, I guess. But at the same time...I donno. I guess I just always thought there'd be more than this."

MacCready chuckled, patting Dov on the back. "You and me both, pal. But from what I can tell, the world's always been like this. Almost no one really gets to do the thing they love. If they did, we'd have way more artists and way fewer scavvers, don't you think? But hell, some people who want to be artists are terrible at it, and pretty good at scavving. Maybe it's enough to do what you're good at, even if it's not what you love. And you're pretty great at running that shop."

Dov smiled down at him. "I guess. But I'm pretty good with grenades too, right?"

"Well, it could be beginner's luck," MacCready teased. "But yeah, I guess if you ever did decide to kill ferals for a living, someone would probably hire you. As long as they didn't mind collateral damage," the sniper added, gesturing towards the smoldering ruins of the courtyard. "Now if we're done with the heart-to-heart, Killer, there's a lot more ferals inside, and I'm pretty sure they're not gonna be too happy with what just happened. Are you good to keep going?"

The trader nodded, wiping the grime from his face with his damp kerchief before tucking it in his back pocket. "Yeah."

"Keep your eyes open once we get in there," MacCready ordered. "Ferals are bad enough when you've got good sightlines, but inside buildings is where they really get fun. Damn things are sneaky, quiet, and fast. They can show up without any warning, from anywhere. Even when you think they're all dead, don't let your guard down."

"I'll do my best," Dov replied, reloading his shotgun. "Anything else."

"Just…" the sniper sighed. "Thanks. It means a lot that you're here, Dov. I know I said that I could handle it on my own, but I'm really grateful that you tagged along."

The trader grinned. "You can thank me after we cure your son. Let's go."

The two men stalked carefully across the courtyard, carefully keeping their eyes out for surviving ferals. However, Dov's pyrotechnics seemed to have done an excellent job at destroying the ghoul nest, and they reached the entrance without incident.

The lobby itself was remarkably clear of ghouls, and MacCready sighed in relief. The last time he'd attempted to go after the cure, he'd run past the ferals outside only to be mobbed inside as well. Still, as the sniper had told Dov, this was no time to relax. He knew the ferals were still somewhere inside the facility, and it was only a matter of time before the monsters found the two men.

"We need to find the executive terminal," MacCready said softly. "That's the only way we can end the security lockdown and get into the lab. Well, as long as these codes Sinclair gave me actually work. I haven't ever gotten far enough to use them."

"Well, do you at least have an idea of where we're going?" Dov asked.

MacCready nodded. "In most of these old offices, the bosses worked near the top, so I'm guessing that's the way we need to go. Seems funny, really. They spent all that time lording it over the little guy, but when the bombs fell, the workers under them probably had better protection from the radiation. 'Course, most of them are ferals now." He sighed. "I'm still not sure what's better, being vaporized or becoming one of those things. Either way, you're not you any more." He tried not to think of the ghouls he was friends with, especially Daisy. Some of them were very nice people, and it pained him to think that someday they too would become mindless, hungry monsters. Still, it happened to most ghouls eventually, even if it took centuries.

Dov scouted around the lobby, searching for the stairwell. "There's gotta be...oh! Hey, Mac, it's this way."

The sniper fell in behind his companion as Dov clambered up the stairs. "Shh! Step carefully!" MacCready cautioned. "Ferals have really good hearing."

The trader nodded sheepishly. "Sorry," he mouthed. They continued upstairs, slowly and carefully. Eventually, the stairwell opened up to reveal a wide balcony, weathered and twisted steel still passable, if dangerous. They were about halfway across the coverless divide when MacCready heard gurgling and uneven footfalls approaching from the hallway ahead. He grabbed Dov by the arm, yanking him into an open office, his heart choking him as it pounded violently.

Dov tried to speak, but MacCready covered his mouth with his hand, panic coursing through him as the sounds drew closer. Once he was certain that the trader understood what was going on, MacCready released his hold on the younger man, desperately trying to calm himself down. There wasn't time to get to cover. The only hope they had was flattening themselves near the door and hoping that the horde would pass them by. But the sniper found himself unable to move, abject terror weakening his legs. No. There were too many of them. They were going to die.

MacCready usually had better control over his fear of ferals. After what had happened to Lucy, he sometimes had trouble with the crazed ghouls, but it was rarely this bad any more. Maybe it was the circumstances, the idea that yet again, ferals were going to lead to the loss of his family. It wouldn't be direct, not this time, but if he and Dov couldn't get past the ghouls, Duncan was probably going to die. He felt powerless, helpless, and most of all, scared out of his mind.

"Hey," Dov whispered, grabbing MacCready and leading him to one of the blind spots in the room. "Tell me about your son."

"What good will that do?" MacCready hissed in reply, his breathing erratic. "The ghouls will find us if we make too much noise."

"And you won't be able to shoot well if you're panicking," the trader replied quietly. "So tell me about your boy."

MacCready nodded, drawing in a shaky breath. "Duncan's...well, he's a great kid. He's kind, which is kind of a shocker given who he was raised by, I know, but he's just got this gentle soul. Got his mom's smile, too, you know the kind that just makes you want to, I donno, be better somehow. Kinda like you and Zev. Hell, maybe that's why I feel so comfortable with you both."

Dov grinned. "I'm not young enough to be your kid, Mac, but I appreciate the thought."

"It's not like that," the sniper hissed, glancing about for any sign of feral activity. "I just...if he lives through this, I hope he grows up to be more like you or Zev. Less like me. I don't know if I'd be too proud if he ended up like me."

The trader frowned. "Mac, I...I think you're selling yourself short. You're a really good man."

"Right, and next you'll tell me that the Institute's the good guys." MacCready shook his head. "Look, Dov, I know what I am. I'm a guy who shoots people for a living. Good people don't do what I do."

"And bad people don't look after strangers," Dov retorted, placing a hand gently on MacCready's bony shoulder. "I might not have seen everything you've seen, Mac. But I know people. And you're not as bad as you think you are. Not by a long shot." The young man's smile softened. "I owe you my life. My brother's life. Don't think that what you did for us doesn't matter. Duncan has a good father. I'm sure he's proud of you."

"I…" MacCready's response was lost as his eyes met Dov's. The trader was close to him, so close that he could smell the smoke and sweat that perfumed Dov's skin. There was a flicker of something powerful and unnerving in the younger man's gaze, like he saw more of MacCready than the sniper was willing to reveal. He found his heart racing again, but not from terror. No, this was something ancient, something left behind with the death of his boyhood, a strange and disconcerting possibility that he wasn't prepared for. MacCready backed away, his eyes searching everywhere but Dov's. "I think the pack's moved on," he murmured. "I can't hear them any more."

Dov cleared his throat awkwardly, the mysterious glimmer fading from his light brown eyes. "Yeah. I think you're right. Guess we should get moving."

"Guess we should," MacCready agreed. "I'll take point."

Neither of them spoke of that moment again, which made it easy for MacCready to rationalize that it had just been his imagination or his fear playing tricks on him. That suited him well enough. After all, he had enough on his plate right now with trying to find the executive offices. Anything else was a distraction.

The floor they were on was mostly a wash, broken computers and only a few pieces of valuable salvage in the unrestricted labs. The men continued down the hallway, searching for another way up. There had to be a more direct route that they just weren't seeing yet.

Eventually, MacCready and Dov entered a large open office full of computers and processing equipment. This must have been a secretary pool. The sniper had seen a few rooms like this in his travels. Supposedly, receptionists and secretaries for the executives would work together in a large space like this, hard as it was to imagine people wasting their lives in a place like this. The room, though as ravaged by time and nuclear devastation as the rest of the facility, was surprisingly intact. Well, except for a massive hole in the floor, but no place was perfect. MacCready leaned over the hole, whistling under his breath in amazement. That was a hell of a drop. It might even have gone all the way into the sub-basement. A shame they hadn't brought any climbing equipment.

The sniper referred to a torn sheet of paper, a map made in haste by the man he'd bought the access codes from. They were on the right track. The executive offices should be just a floor above them, now, if Sinclair's description of the facility layout was accurate. MacCready gestured to Dov. "Hey!" he hissed, "I'm going to scout ahead and see what the feral situation's like above us. Stay here and make sure that mob doesn't come back, okay?"

Dov nodded. "Be careful," he murmured.

"You too," MacCready replied. He stayed low and close to the wall, carefully climbing a destroyed piece of the balcony above. It was slow progress, but once he made it up, once he saw the office doors at the end of the hall, he knew the caution was worth it. Just a few more feet and…The sniper heard a shriek of alarm from the floor below, and he ran to the edge of the balcony, rifle at the ready. It was hard to tell what had happened exactly, but the result was obvious.

The pack of ferals had found Dov. They had him cornered against the monitors, snarling and lashing out at him with brittle nails and rotten teeth. MacCready stifled a curse as he readied his rifle, taking one of the ferals in the back. Several of the others turned to look at him, breaking off their pursuit of the trader. Instead, they scrambled up the ramp towards MacCready, growling viciously. He felled them as best as he could, but his aim was erratic without the time to properly set up his shots. Damnit, he should have just sucked it up and worn Myra's stupid brace. Now, when it really mattered, he'd do anything for better accuracy. If he or Dov died because of his stubbornness, MacCready wasn't sure if he'd be able to forgive himself.

Even without his normal sharpshooter's accuracy, MacCready did a pretty good job taking out the ghouls. It took more ammo than he was comfortable with, but he made quick work of the ones that had come after him all the same. He turned back towards his companion, his heart sinking. Dov's eyes were wide in terror as he tried to reload his shotgun, several ferals already trying to wrestle him to the ground. The shopkeeper screamed again as one clamped its jaws around his arm, causing him to drop his gun.

"Dov!" MacCready screamed, dropping his sniper rifle and pulling the axe Myra had given him from his pack as he ran. It wasn't safe for him to attack the ghouls from a distance, not while his aim was off. He couldn't stomach the idea of accidentally killing Dov.

The young man's cries of fear and pain echoed the sniper's as he desperately tried to kick his way free. But the feral that clung to him was determined, yanking his arm so hard that MacCready swore he could hear Dov's joints pop. A second feral, injured but still determined, crawled forward and sank its putrid, rotting teeth into the meaty part of Dov's leg with a gurgling cry. The trader screamed in agony as the monster that had once been a man ripped a large chunk out of his lower leg, bright blood painting the floor with slick crimson.

MacCready desperately hacked his way towards the struggling shopkeeper, his heart racing as he dismembered the ghouls in his path. As he watched in horror, the ferals who had captured Dov were not the last of the force in the area. Radiation-twisted arms reached through the gaping, jagged hole in the floor, filthy, half-decayed hands grasping for purchase. MacCready kicked at one of them as he ran by, narrowly avoiding its grasp. "How many of these damn things are there?" he bellowed in frustration.

Dov struggled to stay upright as the ghouls tried to drag him to the floor, but it was a losing battle. His tan skin was ashy from blood loss and fear, his flailing body stained with his own blood. His movements were slow, weak. MacCready was running out of time.

The sniper was suddenly yanked backwards by his backpack, a snarl of hunger accompanied by a blast of putrid breath in his ear. MacCready stunned the ghoul behind him with a donkey kick to the knee, wrestling himself free from his backpack. He tried not to think about the irreplaceable items inside. There wasn't time to worry about things, not when lives were on the line.

As the feral attacking his legs went in for another bite, Dove finally crashed to the floor, his head bouncing against the twisted metal. He groaned in disorientation and shock as the ferals began dragging him towards the chasm in the center of the room. "Mac!" the young man shrieked. "Help me!"

"I'm trying!" MacCready yelled back as he sliced through the horde. "Don't give up on me now, Dov! You hear me? Stay alive! I'm almost there!"

"I...I can't. I...AHHHGH!" Dov wailed as the downed ghoul continued to gnaw on his flesh, tendons and bone snapping sickeningly as the monster tore his leg apart.

"Dov, I've got you!" MacCready bellowed, diving through the tangled mass of ferals as he reached for the young man's hand. Briefly, he grasped ahold of Dov's fingers in his own, and he struggled to gain a tighter grip. But before he had the chance, Dov's blood-slicked fingers slipped away, and the young man was yanked, screaming into the abyss beneath them. "Fuck!" MacCready yelled, punching the floor. He had been so close. But once again, he'd been helpless, had been forced to watch a person he'd sworn to protect die.

The sniper barely had time to react before the horde was on him as well, scratching and biting at his exposed flesh. MacCready did his best to kill as many of them as he could, but the mob of ferals seemed endless. With a cry of sorrow and frustration, MacCready ran for the exit, blood oozing from a hundred nicks and bites. He snatched his rifle from the floor as he retreated. The sniper had made it farther into the facility than he'd ever gotten before, but it still wasn't enough. What's more, he'd lost Dov, his pack, and nearly his own life in the process.

MacCready didn't stop running until his legs gave out from exhaustion. He didn't even have enough strength left to cry. All that fighting, all that loss, and he still hadn't managed to save his son. It was hopeless. Dov was dead. Duncan was probably soon to follow. MacCready had failed them both.

He tried not to think about what Zev would say when he told him the news. Would the young minuteman cry? Would he blame MacCready? Hell, would he grow to hate the sniper for failing his twin? As far as MacCready was concerned, Zev's ire would be well-deserved. The would could stand to lose an RJ MacCready or two. But there had already been so few men like Dov Stern. Once again, a brighter light than his had been snuffed out, and all because he wasn't strong enough, fast enough, good enough.

MacCready reached for his flask, only to remember that his pack was still high in the ruins of Med-Tek Research, a swarm of ferals between them. He started laughing hysterically, leaning up against a ruined laundromat for support. God, he couldn't even get drunk right. What the hell kind of good was he?

The sniper couldn't shake the thought that things would have been different if Myra had been there. If she'd kept her word, had made Duncan's cure her priority, Dov would still be at Starlight, tending to his store, not dead in the heart of a research facility, his body torn apart by ferals. Maybe Myra would have died in his place. That wasn't a comforting thought, either. But something in MacCready's mind told him that Myra would have been okay. She was a graceful fighter with good instincts, not a novice like Dov. She had the benefit of Brotherhood training, as well as that ridiculous laser rifle she carried that would have chewed through the ferals like paper. No, Myra would have survived. She was good at that.

He turned and headed south, limping carefully towards the Castle. There was no sense in returning to Starlight. It would hurt too much. MacCready didn't need a reminder of what the world had lost in Dov. He needed answers. Answers only Myra could give him.

MacCready really didn't want to blame Myra for not meeting him in Starlight, but as the day wore on and his journey grew more arduous, it got harder and harder for him not to hold her responsible. Whatever had held her up at the Castle had better have been worth it. He needed to know, needed to see her, needed to makes sense of the horrible tragedy he'd just witnessed. If Myra could go with him, if she could just help him get the cure, he might be able to move past what had happened. At least Duncan would be saved, even if the price was far greater than the sniper had intended. All he needed to know was that there was a good reason why she'd failed to show, that he could still trust her.

As night fell, MacCready managed to drag himself to a small settlement. The men who lived there, a father and son, took him in and bandaged his wounds without asking too many questions, which he was grateful for. The son even gave up his bed for MacCready, camping out in the ruined house on the edge of their property instead. The last thoughts the sniper had as he finally surrendered to fatigue were of Dov, his eyes full of terror as he plummeted to his doom. Over and over, the trader's death played through MacCready's mind, shocking him awake only for the exhaustion to pull him under again. There was no escape from what had happened. In the real world or in dreams, what had happened could not be undone.

* * *

**_A/N: Sorry for the late chapter. Things have been...hectic. But hopefully I'll be able to get the next chapter out soon. Thanks for your patience!_**

**_NEXT CHAPTER: Deacon has to live with the consequences of his decision._**


	9. The Failure

**9\. The Failure**

**_Deacon struggles to take responsibility for his actions._**

* * *

Danse and Myra looked up in surprise as a shot rang out through the night. A large-caliber bullet shattered one of the cabin's surviving windows, showering the dining room table with shards of ancient glass. Myra's eyes widened as the bullet sank into the wall a mere inch above her head, crying in alarm as the Paladin yanked her to the floor. Danse flipped the table for cover, steaks tumbling to the floor with a horrific crash.

"Are you all right, Myra?" the Paladin cried out in alarm.

"I'm fine," she replied, breathless. "Just startled."

Deacon sighed as he observed the aftermath of his shot. Such a waste of good food. Such a waste of a custom bullet, too. It had taken him months to perfect the stupid thing. At least the wall wasn't going anywhere.

The spy slung his sniper rifle over his shoulder, darting away into the night. It wouldn't do anyone any good if they found him at the scene. Neither Myra's new favorite allies or the Railroad itself would wait for an explanation before punishing him, and Deacon wasn't certain what he'd say if anyone did bother to listen. Desdemona had commanded him to kill Whisper if the agent chose to side with the Brotherhood of Steel. It was an explicit order, not one that could be misinterpreted or deliberately misconstrued. But he had failed. Deliberately. Again.

He felt his stomach clench as he thought about what he'd almost done. Right up until he'd fired, Deacon had been prepared to take Myra's life. He'd aimed carefully, hoping to make it a quick and painless death for the woman he'd rescued so many times before, the woman who - if circumstances had been different - he might have even thrown everything away for. In a sense, perhaps he just had.

Deacon's heart pounded wildly in his chest as the image of her lifeless body crumpling to the floor haunted his thoughts. He tried to calm down, to remind himself that she was alive, that he'd saved her from himself. But even as the reality of what he'd done sank in, the fact that he'd almost gone through with the assassination horrified him. The spy knew he was part of a hierarchy, that he had to follow Desdemona's orders. There was a damn good reason why Myra needed to die. She was a risk to the entire Railroad now. In fact, given her conflicting allegiances, she always had been. There was a real chance that Myra would be the spark that burned them all to ash.

Choosing to spare Danse was a mistake, one he'd made on a number of occasions for Myra's sake. But sparing her? How could that ever be a mistake? Even if it was the right thing to do, even if the entire future of the Railroad likely hinged on killing her...Deacon could never bring himself to hurt Myra. He'd saved her life too many times for that. She was the closest thing he'd ever had to a real friend, and even now that she'd betrayed the Railroad, had turned her back on everything else Deacon cared about, he couldn't just snuff out her life like that. It wasn't right. None of this was right.

How had things gone so wrong? Was it always going to be this way? Or was it Deacon's fault? Had the night in Salem inevitably led to this? The spy couldn't help but blame himself for Myra's betrayal of everything he thought she stood for. If only he hadn't started feeling such dangerous things for her, if only he'd been able to control his foolish, traitorous heart, maybe everything would have turned out differently.

It was true that Myra was a problem. She was immature, irresponsible, and fleeting in her loyalty to anyone but herself. But Deacon? He was the real problem. And if he didn't get his head on straight soon, he knew there would be dire consequences for everyone he cared about.

Myra hadn't been ready for the expectations he'd had for her. Deacon could see that now. She was special, a perfect figurehead for people to rally behind, but still very much a child. He'd expected too much of her, had hoped to guide her without teaching because of her natural talents. Deacon had been so focused on her potential, on who she could become, that he'd forgotten to help her reach that potential first. His partner had betrayed the Railroad, yes. But perhaps Deacon had unwittingly betrayed Myra just as badly.

Deacon wandered through the twisted trees, unsure of his next course of action. He knew the responsible thing to do was to return to HQ and tell Dez what had transpired, to accept the punishment she would surely dish out for his failure. What would it be this time? Something told him that Dez wouldn't be satisfied with a few well-placed punches this time. Deacon was looking at exile again, maybe worse.

He groaned as he thought back to the last time the Railroad had kicked him out, after that blowhard Pinky Thompson had finally had enough of his antics. Deacon didn't entirely blame the former Railroad leader for his decision. After all, the spy had spent the month prior to his dismissal as a ghoul, and while the Railroad was more accepting of the irradiated humans than most, Deacon admitted that it probably freaked a lot of people out that he was able to pull off such a flawless disguise.

But Desedmona had vouched for him after Thompson had lost Trinity Safehouse. She had insisted that the Railroad wasn't nearly as stable without a talented intelligence agent running their surveillance, that the recent losses wouldn't have happened if Deacon was still part of HQ. Dez wasn't always the easiest person to work for, but she was intelligent and fair. Hell, that was one of the reasons why Deacon respected her, and there weren't many people he really respected. Knowing that he had betrayed Desdemona's trust, that he had gone against Railroad regulations to save Myra...he deserved whatever he had coming to him, and then some. There were few virtues that Deacon really cared about, but loyalty was arguably the top of the list.

And he'd been loyal. God, had he been loyal. Through all of Desdemona's hawk-like policies, through her crackdown on relationships, he'd been by her side, helping to enforce Railroad policy. Deacon might not have always agreed with Dez's commands, but he had certainly understood why she made the rules that she did. Life in the Railroad was hard enough without getting attached to anyone. Every relationship, every potential leak was a liability that they couldn't afford. Not if any of them were going to survive. So Deacon had mostly kept his opinion to himself when Trailblazer was exiled - after taking a good knock on the jaw after he got between her face and Dez's fist, of course. He'd done nothing when over-curious traders and Brotherhood soldiers were quietly disappeared. These were necessary evils. At least that's what Deacon told himself.

But now, having done the unthinkable, having spared the life of a traitor, Deacon's view of things had begun to fragment. His mind and his heart were at terrible odds, and there was no action he could take without unimaginable consequences. What if Myra destroyed the Railroad? She certainly had enough information to do so, having been assigned to HQ. The Railroad never told their agents more than what they needed to know, but in Myra's case, the knowledge she had would be more than enough to wipe out the secret organization's entire command structure. Sparing her life was far beyond foolish.

At the same time, Myra wasn't some monster to put down. She was blinded by love, and Deacon certainly understood that. It tore him up inside to see her with Danse, to know everything that she had sacrificed so carelessly to be with the Paladin, but he was in no position to judge her. After all, Deacon had just condemned himself for the same reason, hadn't he?

The spy chuckled sadly to himself. "You really are an idiot," he mumbled. "How could you let this happen?"

Deacon needed guidance, and he was running out of people he trusted enough to give him advice. HQ wasn't an option, not until he'd figured out how to fix this. Bringing MacCready in at this point would only endanger the sniper. That left only one recourse: Trailblazer.

The spy turned and headed east, back towards the Castle. He wasn't sure what sort of reception awaited him there, but he didn't really have much of a choice. Either Trail would help Deacon by giving him the advice he needed, or...Deacon really didn't want to turn Trailblazer in. She seemed better, now that she was with the Minutemen. Happy, even. The spy couldn't recall seeing her so at peace since before her exile. Was he really prepared to risk her happiness just to appease Dez?

Deacon wasn't certain. Hell, he wasn't certain of anything any more. But he had to figure things out quickly, before he really did run out of time.

* * *

It was the next evening by the time Deacon returned to the Castle, the sun already kissing the horizon goodnight beyond the ruined skyscrapers of old Boston. The spy gulped nervously, steeling himself for what lay before him. After all, he hadn't exactly left the Minutemen on good terms, and while Preston was kind to his allies, he had a real vengeful streak. Deacon wasn't looking forward to asking the man for a favor.

"Who is it?" a feminine voice cried from the ramparts.

"The name's Robin Goodfellow," Deacon said with a smirk, holding up his pack. "I'm an ammo dealer from out near Somerville Place. Heard tell you folks might be in need of some fusion cells."

"Hang on," the woman replied. "I've gotta check with the Colonel."

Deacon waited for what seemed like forever before Preston appeared at the top of the ramparts. The Colonel glared down at Deacon, his mouth taut. "Well, look who it is. Because of course it's you. It's too bad I can't let you in. We really could use more fusion cells."

"Hi, Preston!" Deacon replied with a wave and a smile. "I know you're not happy with me, but can you please open the gate? I promise, you can do as many cavity searches as you want. Hell, I'll even throw in the ammo I have. I wasn't lying about how much I've picked up. It'll be worth your while, honest!"

Preston sighed. "Either you're incredibly brave, or you're even more of an idiot than I thought." The Colonel nodded to one of the Castle guards, who aimed his laser musket at the spy.

The spy raised his hands in surrender. "I'm not here to fight, Garvey," he replied. "I need to talk to Trail...um, I mean Talise." God, it felt weird using her real name.

Preston's dark eyes narrowed. "What about?"

"Well, the Railroad's got this annual potluck coming up," Deacon lied, "and she used to make this awesome trifle, absolutely to die for. Trouble is, no one knows the recipe except for her, and I really wanna make it for everyone. Our boss gave me a whole ration of shit for showing up with a couple cans of potato crisps last year, so I'm in real hot water if I don't step up my game this time."

The Colonel snorted incredulously. "Do you really expect me to believe that you'd go through all this for a dessert recipe?"

"You obviously haven't tasted it," the spy insisted. "Seriously, pal, it's like being kissed by no less than seven angels. I don't know how she does it."

"Fine," Preston sighed, waving off the guard. "For the record, I don't believe you. Still, I guess I can't stop you from talking to her, as long as she's okay with it. But Deacon?"

"Yeah?"

"There'll be at least one other minuteman in the room at all times. If we hear even a whisper of a threat from you, you're gone, okay?"

Deacon nodded. He hadn't really expected anything different. After all, Preston knew that Trailblazer was on the run from the Railroad. He must have realized the danger she was in. "That's fair," he replied.

There was a pneumatic hiss as the gate swung open, and Deacon stepped inside cautiously. If it had been anyone else, he'd have worried about traps. But Preston was never that cunning. Guy had a good heart, but damn if he wasn't too sincere for his own good. A lesser man would have taken advantage.

Preston and the guard descended the stairs next to the gate, intercepting the spy. "Sorry for all this, Deacon," the Colonel said, a hint of warning still clinging to the back of his throat. "I'm sure you understand that after your little stunt the other day, I'm not eager to let you out of my sight. It's bad enough that all of the General's friends seem to think the Minutemen are their personal servants. You could at least pretend to respect our organization."

Deacon offered him a handshake. "I don't respect organizations," he said coolly. "I respect people. And you're a good man, Preston. A real shame that's gonna get you killed someday."

"And you're a slimy son of a gun," Preston replied with a dangerous smile, returning the handshake. "A shame that you'll probably outlive us all. Talise is helping organize the armory," he continued. "Yates will take you there, won't you, Yates?"

The guard nodded. "Of course, sir!"

"Aw, no personal escort?" Deacon said with a pout. "And here I thought you cared."

Preston sighed. "Don't push it, Deacon. And if you slip away from Yates, I will have you shot. Just so we're clear."

"Crystal." Deacon sighed in relief once he was escorted out of Preston's sight. If the spy had wanted to wither under a scrutinizing gaze, he would have just gone home. As Yates led him across the courtyard, Deacon glanced around, whistling in appreciation. The large open space was gorgeous now that the weather had warmed, and he noted with appreciation that someone had even taken the time to plant a flourishing herb garden in one corner of the pentagon. If the Minutemen and the Railroad ever went to war, the militia would probably win just because they had better food. Railroad safehouses were only rarely stocked with crops, since fresh planting outside an otherwise abandoned building was a dead giveaway that the site was still inhabited. Besides, the synths under the Railroad's care usually favored processed food, so the human agents had learned to deal with disappointing meals.

Deacon grinned as he saw Trailblazer. Her back was to the door as she tinkered with an old laser musket, grumbling under her breath as she attempted to modify the weapon. The spy cleared his throat, startling her. "What have I told you about paying attention to your surroundings?" he chided.

"Deacon, what are you doing here?" she exclaimed, flipping her long black braid over her shoulder as she turned. "Does Colonel Garvey know that you're back? He was pretty pissed that Kes let you go."

"Yeah, yeah. I already talked to him," Deacon replied. "We're going out for ice cream later. I think he's finally gonna acknowledge that we're friends."

Trailblazer chuckled. "That'll be the day. If you had whatever the opposite of a fan club is, I'm pretty sure he'd be like, the treasurer."

"That's just 'cause he's denying his feelings," the spy teased. "I'll bet you a case of Nuka-Cola that he'll come around within the month."

"Deacon, I learned a long time ago not to make bets with you," she replied. "So as tempting as it is...why don't you tell me why you're here? I'm sure you didn't crawl back here just to chat."

Deacon's smile faded. "You're right. Look, Trail, we really need to talk."

She frowned at him slightly. "If it's about...I'm not going back, Deacon," Trail said bluntly, dropping her hammer on the workbench with a clang. "I told you already. I'm happy here. For the first time since I got booted out of HQ, I feel like I'm making a real difference. I can't go back to sitting in a bunker by myself, playing with sock puppets and listening in on radio signals. I just can't."

The spy sighed. "I know. I heard you the first time. That's not exactly why I'm here."

"Right. Because there's so many other reasons why the Railroad's best spy would come visit me," she retorted. "Don't lie to me, Deacon. Just this once, tell me the truth."

Deacon bit his lower lip for a moment as he tried to find the right words. Trail was right. After everything, she deserved to know what had happened. His eyes widened as he realized what he was doing. Biting his lip? When had he picked that particular tic up? "I…look, I need your advice, okay?" he pleaded. "I messed up. Bad. And right now, I don't know what to do or who to come to. I know I hurt you, Trail, but I don't have anyone else. Please."

She went quiet, her warm brown eyes wide with shock. "I don't think I've ever heard you this sincere, Deacon," she murmured. "What's happened?"

"It's Whisper," he replied. "She's abandoned us. And I...I let her go. I don't know why, I just...Dez is gonna kill me."

"What?" Trailblazer gasped. "What do you mean, abandoned us?"

"She's taking the Brotherhood of Steel's big oath thing, Trail," he said gruffly. "That means she's giving up everything. The Railroad. The Minutemen. Everything that isn't hell-bent on kissing Maxson's ass."

"Shit. Have you told Garvey?" she asked softly, her face pale.

Deacon shook his head. "I shouldn't even be telling you. But it's important that you know why I...I almost…" his voice trailed off as the spy fought to control his emotions.

Trailblazer sighed sadly, taking his hand in hers. "Deacon, you know what the Railroad's rules are. Hell, you're the one who taught them to me. Dez would want you to kill the General for her betrayal. So did you?"

He shook his head. "I couldn't. I tried, I really did, but…"

"But you're in love with her, aren't you?" Trail finished sharply, wiping her greasy hands on her militia uniform. "Damn it, Deacon! After everything you and the rest of HQ put me through, you went and screwed up the same way I did? You stupid bastard!"

Deacon groaned. "Yeah, I guess I deserve that."

"Damn right you do!" she hissed. "Look, I know what Harry and I did was wrong, Deacon. But at least we were both loyal when it mattered. At least we took responsibility for our choices, even though it cost us everything."

"I am taking responsibility," Deacon retorted. "I...I'll take the blame. Whatever Dez decides to do to me is fine. I probably deserve worse."

Trailblazer rolled her eyes. "There you go with your self-pity again. You know, I really did used to fall for that. But beating yourself into a pulp isn't a real solution. You know that. Dez could have you killed, and it still wouldn't change the fact that you put the Railroad in danger. Do you really think you can protect the General if you're dead? Who'd be there to stop her from just sending someone else to clean up your mess? Think, Deacon. You're good at that."

The spy sighed. "I could buy her some time, maybe. Tell Dez that Whisper's going deep-cover. That's almost believable."

"It would be normally, yes," Trailblazer said. "But doesn't Dez like to approve missions like that ahead of time? Won't she be suspicious if suddenly your already unpredictable partner's gone on an extremely risky mission like that?"

"That's true," Deacon muttered, lost in thought. "We could...no, that won't work. Or...no, that won't work either."

Trailblazer sighed. "Deacon, breathe. You've had missions go wrong before. How did you handle it then?"

"I don't usually fail. That's the problem. Well, there was that time when I..." He thought back to the first time he'd inadvertently saved Danse's life, when Myra had arrived at the police station just before Deacon could carry out his attack. It had only been half a year, but it felt like a lifetime ago. At the time, he wasn't sure why he'd risked everything for Myra. Deacon had told himself that it was because of her potential, but had that been the only reason? Had he already started to care for her, even before they'd formally met? God, what a mess.

"I...I distracted Dez with something that benefited the Railroad," Deacon murmured. "Like bringing Whisper in to begin with. She was so interested in getting a new agent that she let me off the hook pretty quickly."

Trailblazer frowned. "Well, that worked out great. But I think you might be on to something." She looked up at him, her deep brown eyes wide with uncertainty and fear. "Deacon, if you really want to save her...I guess we don't have a choice. I have to go back."

Deacon froze. "No. That's not an option, Trail. I'm not going to ask you to do that."

"Think about it," she insisted. "If you let me go, there's a chance Dez will just eliminate all three of us. You know how she is when she's desperate. And right now, she has two agents in the wind, and you in the middle of all of it. Face it, you can't protect me and the General. If you don't play this smart, you won't even be able to protect yourself. If I...if I go back, there's a chance she won't go after Whisper, right?"

Deacon shook his head. "That doesn't matter! You don't want to go back, right? I can't...I won't bring you in. I've hurt you enough already."

"You don't have a choice! Not if you want her to live." Trailblazer smiled nervously. "At least Dez probably wants me alive."

"I don't know what to say," he replied.

She touched his arm gently. "I'm sorry for what I said the last time I saw you, Deacon," she murmured. "You messed up, and I was angry. But I know why you didn't tell me about Tommy's death. You...you always were our friend. He'd want me to help you."

Deacon choked back a lump in his throat, thankful that she couldn't see the tears in his eyes. So she thought of him as a friend after all, in spite of how badly he'd failed her. And now, she was willing to sacrifice everything she had left to help him? Deacon was overwhelmed by how little he deserved her kindness. God, Trailblazer was a terrible agent. Didn't she know that grand gestures of self-sacrifice were meaningless? Except for when Deacon did them, of course. That was different. "I..." He cleared his throat roughly. "Thanks."

"Don't go soft on me," she teased. "A Railroad operative has to be hard as steel and remorseless as stone, remember?"

"'There's lives depending on us being callous,'" he replied with a smirk. "'We can't save everyone, even if we want to. The mission's all that matters, because if we don't stay focused, people die.' So you do remember what I told you."

"You never were great at following your own lessons, were you, boss?" Trail said with a gentle smile.

"Well, you know what they say," Deacon shot back. "Those who can't do, and all that."

She laughed, shaking her head. "I should go pack. There's a few trinkets in my quarters that Dez probably wants back."

Deacon nodded. "Fine, but you'd better come back soon. I don't wanna face Preston alone."

"Oh, yeah. He's super scary," she teased, slinking out of the armory.

"You know it," he muttered to himself, flopping into a chair. Damn it, why was she so...nice? People needed to stop being kind to him. It was confusing, and awful, and he was terrified that he might get used to it. Trailblazer didn't deserve to be punished for Deacon's mistakes. It was his responsibility, and his alone. Well, it was definitely Myra's responsibility, too, but Deacon had a strong suspicion that she didn't understand that. If she really, truly knew the weight of what she'd done, would she have gone through with it?

Myra was still a confusing enigma to him. Though Deacon was something of an expert in human nature, he couldn't quite figure her out. It was easy to blame fear and trauma for her rash decisions, but there was something else, something not quite right about the way she operated. It was almost like Myra didn't fully know or understand herself. Like she was...trying to remember how to Myra? Did that make sense? Sometimes, it felt like she was fighting her own personality, like she was being pulled strongly in too many directions. Deacon had attributed this to the pressure each of the factions had placed on her, but what if it was more? What if she...

Yates cleared his throat, startling Deacon out of his train of thought. It was just as well. That was absurd. There was no way Myra wasn't human. It was just his own fears playing tricks on his mind, memories of the only other woman he'd loved casting synthetic shadows over Myra's behavior. He glanced over at the guard. "You coughed?"

The man glared at him. "What's going on here? You're not seriously taking Talise away, are you?"

"I guess I am," Deacon replied. "Why, is that a problem?"

Yates nodded. "She's one of us now. I don't know what your business is with her, but her place is here."

"Well, I guess that's her decision, isn't it?" Deacon retorted. "Trust me, I don't like this either. But the lady's made up her mind."

The other man sighed, his cheeks a soft shade of pink. "I know. I just...she's a good person. And good people don't last long out in the 'Wealth. You keep her safe, okay?"

"I'll give it my best shot," the spy agreed.

"I suppose that's the best I'll get," Yates replied. "But I'm not the one you're gonna have trouble with. Between you and me, I think the Colonel's -"

"Well, I'm back!" Trailblazer interrupted, her pack slung over one shoulder. "Come on, Deacon. You like traveling at night, right?"

Deacon laughed. "You remembered! Now let's go talk to your new boss. Can't have him accusing me of secreting you off into the night."

"Aww, like that'd stop you," she joked. They headed for the courtyard, each of them trying to pretend that they weren't about to march into one of the worst days of their lives. At least Preston wouldn't be as bad as Dez. He was like an amuse-bouche to the real shitstorm that was coming.

Preston, for his part, didn't seem all that shocked to see Deacon and Trailblazer together. "So, I guess you've decided to go back to...your people," he said with a heavy sigh. "Talise, are you sure this is what you want? He's not forcing you to go?"

She nodded. "I...I need to be responsible," she said softly. "I shouldn't have just run away without telling my boss what I was up to. I have to face the consequences of my actions."

The Colonel looked at her, a quiet sadness in his eyes that tinged his smile. "For what it's worth, you're a great minuteman. If you ever...if you get the chance, you're always welcome here."

Trailblazer smiled gently up at him. "That means a lot to me, Colonel. I promise, if I can, I'll come back. I just have to help my friend first."

Preston turned to Deacon, his smile souring. "Deacon, if anything happens to her..."

The spy sighed. "Yeah, yeah. I get it. You can flay me and use me as a new area rug, or whatever you're into. I promise I'll look after her."

"No offense, but I don't have much faith in your promises," the Colonel replied. "But I do have faith in your desire to save your own skin, so I guess that's good enough." Preston's arms twitched slightly, as though preparing to pull Trail into a hug, but he amended the gesture into a handshake at the last minute. "Be seeing you, Guerra."

"See you, Garvey," she replied softly, shaking his hand awkwardly.

With that, she and Deacon headed through the gate and into the darkened Commonwealth, the smell of irradiated brine enveloping them as they walked along the strand. Deacon's stomach churned with every step, his gait the measured step of an executioner plodding towards the block. It was a long walk back to HQ, with plenty of time for reflection. Plenty of time to torment himself with all the things that could no longer be changed. Fate was a cruel and changeable mistress, but fate was not responsible for what was to come. His failure had brought them to this place. And he knew in the deepest part of his battered soul that he would never forgive himself for what awaited just beyond the horizon.

He hummed quietly to himself, a little snatch of a song he'd heard once years ago, played on some long-forgotten radio station out in the middle of nowhere. It came back to him in fragments, almost buried completely in the muddle of his mind, but one lyric just wouldn't leave him alone.

"But we go on pretending," he sang softy under his breath, "stories like ours have happy endings."

Trailblazer looked at him, confused. "What?"

Deacon coughed awkwardly. "Nothing. Sorry. I've been having the strangest wheeze lately. I should ask Carrington to check it out when we get back."

"Uhuh," she muttered, thoroughly unconvinced. But thankfully, she didn't press the matter, and they continued on in silence, every step bringing them closer to retribution.

* * *

A/N: Did you miss me? I missed you!

...You guys knew Deacon wouldn't actually shoot Myra, right?

I like to imagine that many of Deacon's aliases are from literature, since he's such a voracious reader. Of course, Robin Goodfellow is another name for the mischievous sprite Puck from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_.

The song Deacon sort of remembers is "You and I," from my favorite musical of all time, _CHESS_. Yes, I know it was written in the 80s, but it fits the whole Red Scare theme, so I'm letting it slide.

NEXT CHAPTER: Danse and Myra enjoy a few last days together before they have to return to the Airport.


	10. The Days That Sing

**10\. The Days That Sing**

**_Danse worries that Myra might have chosen the Brotherhood for the wrong reasons._**

* * *

After one last failed search through the forest, Danse returned to the little cabin by the reservoir, exhausted and frustrated. He'd been out most of the night, looking for any trace of the would-be-assassin who'd nearly killed Myra. Outside of a few broken branches, however, he was unable to find a trail to follow. Whoever it was who had attacked Myra, they were too good at covering their tracks. He pulled open the door with a heavy sigh, blaming himself for his negligence.

The past few days had been some of the most incredible of the Paladin's life, but happiness had made him complacent, and his negligence had almost gotten Myra killed. This was exactly what Danse had been worried about from the moment he'd realized how he felt about Myra. How could he keep her safe, when being close to her made him lose his focus?

Myra looked up from her sweeping, her rifle already swinging from her back to her hand as she gasped in shock. Her emerald eyes softened as she identified the Paladin, and she reholstered her weapon with a sheepish smile. "Sorry, T," she said, continuing to tidy the small kitchen. Between the glass and the overturned table, the cabin was a disaster area, and she seemed determined to rectify that.

Still, Danse couldn't help but notice how she gripped the broom harder than was necessary, and though it was subtle, he could see her lip quivering as she swept. This wasn't Myra being fastidious. She was terrified.

Danse swept her into his arms, holding her tightly against his armored chest. "Myra, you're safe now," he soothed. "Whoever attacked us is long gone. I doubt they'll attempt a similar assault again. Not now that we're aware of the danger."

Myra clung to him tightly, her breath a series of shallow gasps. "How...how can you know that, Danse? What if they…"

He shook his head, planting a comforting kiss on the crown of her head. "I won't let anyone hurt you if I can prevent it. Don't you know that? If you can't trust my assessment of the situation, at least trust that I will gladly spill my own blood to protect you."

She pulled away, fear palpable in her eyes. "Don't you dare. Danse, I...if I lost you…"

The Paladin smiled nervously down at her. It was strange, hearing his own sentiments reflected back to him in her tender voice. He couldn't imagine living without Myra before they'd confessed their feelings for each other. Now that he knew for certain that she felt the same way that he did, the fear of losing her had multiplied tenfold. "I feel the same way about you. Why do you think I've had such difficulty putting you in harm's way?"

"If you understand how I feel," she retorted, "how can you think that risking your life to save me will comfort me?" Myra bit her lower lip anxiously, trying to calm herself down. "I know it's who you are, and I don't want to change you. I just… I don't want to lose someone I care for. Not again."

"I…" Danse thought for a moment. He had to admit, he honestly hadn't considered how his death might affect Myra, in the event that something did happen to him. How could he have forgotten what she'd been through, that she'd already lost Nate? He felt foolish that he hadn't realized how fragile her heart really was. "I understand your reasoning, Myra," he murmured. "And I'll attempt to keep us both safe, If I'm able. I promise."

"That's all I ask," she replied with a worried smile. Myra leaned up on her tiptoes, planting a soft kiss on the Paladin's chapped lips. His heart fluttered in his chest at the gentle, almost ghost-like touch of her skin against his. He was certain that she could spend the rest of their natural lives kissing him like that, and he'd never really get used to it. It was too miraculous, too wonderful a sensation for him to ever take it for granted. He caressed her cheek with a single armored finger, doing his best not to catch any of her hair in the metal joints.

Since the day he'd received his first set of power armor as a young Knight, Danse had preferred to remain in his suit as much as possible. There was something comforting about being enclosed in a shell of steel and circuitry, like nothing could break through and hurt him any more. He'd been an insecure child, nervous and alone as he'd fought for survival in the filthy streets of the Capital Wasteland. Trust and relaxation did not come naturally to him, for good reason. The world as it now was happened to be a cruel and unforgiving place for everyone, but for the weak, the orphaned, the destitute most of all. Until he'd met Cutler, not a soul he had encountered wished him well. He was at best an unfortunate to be forgotten. At worst, he was a ready victim for whatever twisted machinations the ruthless men of the world had in mind.

But in the Brotherhood, Danse had finally found a place where he was valued, where he was able to become strong. He became that friend he'd needed when he was young, a protector of the weak and downtrodden. Under the guidance of his superiors, he'd grown strong and capable, and he hoped he'd brought comfort to those he'd met, even in his aloof, awkward way. The armor wasn't just protection for himself. It was a symbol of his commitment to cleansing the wasteland of the monsters that mankind's own hubris had birthed. When he was in his power armor, he wasn't just Danse. He was, finally, someone who mattered.

For the first time he could remember, the paladin's armor had begun to feel like a hindrance, however. He didn't want to be protected from the world. He didn't want to be secure. All he wanted now was to be Danse, because Danse was the man who had somehow won the affections of Myra Larimer. Everything else just seemed to get in the way. He walked back to the door before exiting the suit, the pneumatic hiss of the valve a comforting, familiar sound in this unfamiliar situation. As always, his power armor would keep intruders from their door. Even unworn, it protected them.

Myra squeaked in surprise as Danse lifted her from the ground, kissing her passionately. She wrapped her legs around his torso, her fingers knotted in his thick black hair. The Paladin marveled at how light she seemed, even without the assistance of his armor. Perhaps it was the adrenaline coursing through him that made her so easy to carry. She tilted her head as she returned his kiss, hot breath from her nose tickling his skin. He smiled against her, the danger of the night nearly forgotten in the overwhelming rush of sensation.

It wasn't that Danse had lost his focus, now that he thought about it. No, his laser-like attention hadn't faltered, it had merely changed direction. All he wanted was to feel and taste and burn, to pull each intoxicating gasp from the woman he loved like yarn from a weaver's wheel, creating a new cloak of life and love and sensation to keep them warm against the harshness of the wastes. Never before had he felt such a need to fully know another human being, for them to truly know him in kind. He'd never thought there was room for a passion like this in his heart, not when he'd sworn himself so totally to the Brotherhood of Steel and to the man who was destined to lead it. Now, Danse knew he was wrong, and he had never been more grateful for a miscalculation.

Each caress, each kiss, each hot breath against skin carried not only depths of unquantifiable emotion, but also a promise written on his very soul. Danse was Myra's, completely and eternally, and while the idea of being so completely another's at such an early stage of their relationship should have terrified him, should have made the Paladin question his sanity, there was nothing further from the truth. There was an unfathomable rightness to his love for her, a comfort in even this manic abandon with which he kissed her. He knew in that moment, as Myra's fingernails gently traced his spine, that he would never stop loving her. Not as long as he lived.

After an eternity, and yet mere seconds, Myra pulled away from his embrace, looking at him with love-bleared eyes, her arms still wrapped around his neck. "You certainly know how to make me feel braver," she murmured huskily. "But we need to focus. What should we do, Danse? Do you really think it's safe for us to stay here? Obviously someone knows where we are, and I don't know about you but that warning shot really didn't seem like a great welcome wagon. Whatever happened to bringing people cookies?"

Danse sighed, lowering her back to the ground. "Your assessment, as always, is accurate. However, I think we'd be in far worse danger if we panicked. The worst action we could take would be to flee into the unknown. If our enemy is still out there, they may have arranged for an ambush. We should at least wait until morning before relocating."

She nodded with a heavy sigh which quickly became a yawn. "You're right. I'm just...that was a close call. Too close. I guess I was having such a great time with you that I forgot how dangerous the Commonwealth is."

Danse blushed slightly. "I understand the sentiment," he agreed. "We will just have to be extra vigilant."

Myra huffed slightly. "Guess that means one of us will still have to stay on watch," she muttered. "It's too bad. I was looking forward to curling up with you." A soft blush painted her freckled cheeks, giving her an air of innocence.

The Paladin's heart pounded wildly as the implications of her complaint flooded his mind. It shouldn't have surprised him as much as it did, the idea that she wanted to be close to him. After all, ever since she'd told Danse that she loved him, Myra hadn't exactly been conservative with her affection, nor did he want her to be. In spite of that, however, he was determined not to get caught up in the heat of the moment. Danse was, above all else, a gentleman, and in his mind, Myra deserved to be treated with the utmost care. She was strong and capable, certainly. But whether she admitted it or not, she had a delicate side to her as well, a side Danse knew in his heart needed to be nurtured and not ignored.

"We'll have plenty of time together," he reassured her. "When we're out of harm's way, believe me, I'll do whatever I can to make up for the time we're losing now."

Myra chuckled sadly. "Oh yeah? When's that gonna be, T? No offense, but in our line of work, we practically live in harm's way. Or at least make a regular commute to it."

He sighed. "Have a little faith, Myra. I promise, if I have to exterminate every threat to the Commonwealth personally, I'll make sure we have some peace and safety in the future. I intend to stay by your side forever, if you'll allow me to."

She grinned slyly at him. "Well, with a declaration like that, what woman could say no?" Myra kissed him one last time before heading for the bedroom. "Don't forget to wake me up," she admonished. "I'll be pissed if you take both watches again."

"Affirmative," Danse muttered. He'd been fully prepared to let her sleep through again. After the stress of being attacked, he knew that her already troubled mind had to be exhausted. But she was right. He wouldn't be able to keep her safe if he wore himself too thin. It was for the best if he also took the time to rest.

As he'd predicted, no more threats arose in the heart of the night. Whoever had shot at Myra was either gone or was smart enough not to make a second attempt while their guards were up. Danse certainly didn't mind the quiet. It gave him time to reflect, to process everything that had happened over the last few months. He relished these calm, introspective watches.

Arthur had always told Danse that the Paladin's biggest problem was his tendency to overthink everything. Danse didn't see it was a problem, however. He was careful, precise. When others impulsively followed their gut, Danse trusted his mind to show him a better way. And even though his relationship with arguably the most impulsive person he'd ever met had begun to teach him the value of intuition, he still relished those brief times when he had uninterrupted time to calculate and plan.

Dread gnawed at the edge of Danse's happiness like a wild dog as he remembered the mission in front of him. Myra had agreed to commit exclusively to the Brotherhood, to face down the Institute alongside her brothers and sisters. Soon, it would be difficult to justify their leave. Maxson wouldn't wait forever, not when they were at war. Their time to enjoy each other's company and ignore their responsibilities was drawing rapidly to a close.

When they returned to the _Prydwen_ , things were going to be different. Myra wasn't going to be sleeping just in the next room any more. She would be back on the other side of the airship, and Danse would return to his private quarters alone. These days of playing domestic had been a beautiful dream, but Danse had never been able to completely forget that it was an illusion. Their real lives would never allow for simple days like these, not so long as Myra was under his command.

There was a way to make this right, if Myra would agree to marry him. But while Danse was ready to make that commitment, he knew he couldn't put that kind of stress on Myra, not before the Institute was destroyed. While he firmly believed that she loved him, Danse knew that Myra was conflicted, confused, and hurting. Whether she'd admit it or not, Myra needed more time to process everything that had happened to her, everything that was about to happen. After all, the Brotherhood wasn't just preparing to destroy the Commonwealth's greatest evil. They were preparing to kill Myra's only son.

Well, hopefully not her only son forever. Danse blushed as the thought occurred to him. Before he'd met Myra, the Paladin had never felt a particular need to have children of his own. It wasn't that he disliked children. He was incredibly fond of the Squires, as a rule. So much so that he'd objected to Maxson bringing the young trainees onboard the _Prydwen. _Danse still believed that having them there was a mistake. Children didn't belong on a warship, they belonged back at the Citadel, where they could be kept safe. Still, he'd lost that fight, so he'd done his best to treat the Squires kindly, protecting them in much the same way as he'd looked after Squire Maxson all those years ago.

No, Danse loved children. But having his own was different. The Paladin had been an orphan. What did he know about raising children? What was so great about his family name that it was worth passing on? It was the name of cowards who had abandoned their responsibilities and left their son alone in the world, a brand of that shame seared into his heart. And yet...there was something about Myra that made him hunger for a family in a way he hadn't since he was a child himself. Through all the shame, all the worry, all the fear of failing his offspring, she gave Danse a glimmer of hope. Perhaps, if she was the one, the love they shared would be enough to overcome his doubts.

It wouldn't be the fantasy that Danse had conjured for himself in the Glowing Sea. The pre-war life he saw with Myra would never come to fruition. But real life, as brutal and filthy and unforgiving as it was...wasn't it better than a fantasy anyway? Wasn't it worth sacrificing for, worth facing their demons for? The Paladin wanted to believe that, and he was determined to give it his all. The dream of a peaceful future with the woman he loved was worth it. It had to be.

As he reflected on everything that might be on the horizon, Danse realized that he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Whether he liked it or not, it was Myra's turn to keep watch. The Paladin walked into the bedroom, smiling in amusement as he took in the sight of Myra's slumbering form. She was splayed out on her side, her left leg dangling off of the bed, snoring like a congested brahmin, but he had never seen anything as beautiful in his entire life. In spite of the close call she'd had earlier in the evening, Myra was completely at peace. And that was all Danse could ever hope for.

He shook her awake gently, and she moaned in protest as the Paladin brushed the hair from her eyes. "Is it time already?" she groaned, her eyes fighting to open.

Danse nodded. "I wish I could let you sleep, but you made it abundantly clear that you'd be upset if I took the full watch."

"I lied," she slurred groggily. "Love you, but love sleep too."

He sighed, hoisting her to her feet. "You need to reacquaint yourself with a military schedule, Knight. Captain Kells won't be so lax with you if you sleep through a duty shift back at the _Prydwen_."

"Yeah, but he's not my boyfriend," Myra protested, wrapping her fingers through his.

Danse fought back a grin. "And when we're working, I'm not your...boyfriend either." The word felt foreign in his mouth, strange to hear in his own voice. "I'm your commanding officer first."

"Yeah, yeah," Myra muttered, wiping the sleep from her eyes. "Can I at least get a good morning kiss, sir ?"

"That's a request I'm happy to indulge," he replied, kissing her firmly on the lips. "Now get dressed and get to work, or I may have to discipline you."

Myra laughed. "Maybe I'll just have to test your restraint," she teased.

"If you want to do push-ups that badly, Myra, do them on your own time," he retorted dryly. "I need to rest."

"Aw, man," Myra protested. She let go of Danse's hand and drowsily wandered into the kitchen. The Paladin lay down on the bed with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes. This was going to be a rougher transition than he'd anticipated.

* * *

Danse awoke to the smell and sizzle of frying meat. His stomach growled like a wild beast as he sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The Paladin could scarcely believe it, but he'd actually managed to sleep until morning again. Perhaps having a partner he could trust was finally beginning to calm his fears. That, or he was just too tired for his insomnia to kick in. Either way, he was grateful.

He plodded into the kitchen groggily, searching for Myra. It didn't take long for him to find her. She was standing barefoot by the hot plate, worrying food around in her battered old skillet. Myra was even more beautiful in the morning, he discovered, a rare gift. Her short white hair was already neatly tucked behind her ears with bobby pins, with only a few loose strands defying her. Her emerald eyes sparkled with mirth as she flipped the a couple eggs in her beaten-up old pan, the glare of her glasses setting them further alight.

"Breakfast's almost ready," she mused. "I hope you don't mind mongrel dog and scrambled mirelurk eggs. It's what we have left."

"I've eaten worse," he murmured, kissing her temple like it was the most natural thing in the world. That was the strangest thing, how normal this all felt. For once, he didn't feel awkward when faced with the prospect of romance, like he was going to fail miserably or want more than what was offered. Being with Myra like this felt right. It was just right. Why had he fought this for so long?

Danse was used to sleeping and waking up at strange hours, but he wasn't precisely what he'd call a morning person. He straightened his unruly black hair as best he could with his fingers. The damned stuff never behaved, giving him the air of a petulant child. This, this was why he always wore his hood, before she'd made him get rid of it.

Myra laughed merrily as he fussed with his hair. "Did you sleep okay?" she asked.

"I believe I've had adequate rest," Danse replied. "Though I suppose I won't know for certain until I'm more alert."

"You know, you can just say yes," she teased.

The Paladin nodded. "Then you'd need to find another way to laugh at my expense, and I can think of far worse things for you and the others to tease me about than the way I speak."

"You make a good point," Myra replied with a chuckle. "Besides, I love that about you."

He felt the heat rising in his cheeks as their eyes met. "I don't know if I'm ever going to get used to hearing that," he murmured.

"Then don't," Myra crooned. "I'll tell you as much as you want. I love you, T."

"I...I love you too, Myra," he replied, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her back against his torso in a firm embrace.

She squeaked, struggling against him. She swatted at him playfully with her spatula. "Danse, please! I'm cooking!"

He rested his head on her shoulder, chuckling slightly. "Breakfast is important, Myra. But this is more important."

Myra carefully set her makeshift weapon down next to the hotplate. She turned carefully in his arms until she beamed up at him, touching his cheek gently with one hand. "You're absolutely right," she replied, leaning up to kiss him. She smiled against his lips as Danse carefully backed them away from the counter. "I doubt a little hot plate's going to cause much damage, Danse. You're such a worrier, you know what?" she murmured.

"Only when I have something worth worrying about," he replied, kissing her again. He marveled how perfectly she fit against him, as though she was made to be in his arms. It was hard to believe that he'd ever felt whole before, without her there. The longer he held her, the more clear it became to him that they were both, at last, exactly where they belonged.

"Mmm," Myra murmured as he nuzzled against her cheek. "Well, maybe I should let you worry about me more, if this is how you react." She pecked Danse quickly on the cheek before wriggling out of his arms. "But if you don't want to go hungry, you'd better go sit down. Any longer and breakfast will burn."

"That would be unfortunate," Danse agreed with a smile. He sat at the table, pouring a cup of coffee for each of them from the carafe Myra had placed there. The Paladin still wasn't as fond of the hot beverage as Myra was, but he had developed a habit of sharing a cup with her when it was available. The bitter, rich liquid didn't seem as harsh to him now as it once did, especially with an ample helping of sugar to take the edge off. Maybe it was because the drink tasted like kissing her. Danse sipped on his cup as he watched Myra finish cooking, memorizing every detail of her movements. Were he half the wordsmith Arthur was, he could write a book just on the swing of her hips. Unfortunately, that was not a skill he possessed, so he instead occupied himself with observation.

"So, what's on the agenda today?" Myra piped over her shoulder as she plated their protein-rich breakfast.

"We should probably return to the _Prydwen_," Danse replied. "After last night, I'm not certain we should risk staying out here alone, and you've healed enough to return to duty, correct?"

Myra nodded. "My ribs still feel like someone was cracking walnuts on them, but I can deal. I just...could we stay for one more day?"

"Well, there are a few houses nearby we could search for valuable salvage to bring back with us," Danse said, trying to come up with an excuse to stick around. He wasn't thrilled about the idea of returning to reality just yet, either, even if it was the prudent choice. "I suppose we could also pack, and knowing you, that might take a full day. It's entirely up to you."

Myra smiled, setting a plate down in front of him. "I'm going to miss this, you know. Having choices."

Danse felt his heart ache at her words. Ever since she'd agreed to take the Oath, he'd worried that she was choosing the Brotherhood for the wrong reasons. He wanted Myra to side with them. Of course he did. But he knew her well enough by now to know that allowing her the flexibility to forge her own path was the best thing for everyone. Myra might love him. She might thrive at his side. But could she ever be truly happy turning her back on her other allies?

The woman Danse had fallen in love with wasn't the sort of person who would abandon her friends, woefully misguided though they might be. Something had happened that had driven her to this decision. For whatever reason, Myra was running away, and though Danse wanted her by his side, he feared that she was simply using him as an excuse to hide from the uncertainty of the road ahead of her. Danse believed that she loved him. But was love enough to keep a force of nature caged in a regulated box?

He thought back to his conversation with Arthur about Knight Gautier, the young Vault-Dweller who had turned the Capital Wasteland on its head. Danse had known Heather well...or as well as anyone in the Brotherhood really had known James Gautier's daughter. He had been hurt by her disappearance, almost as much as Arthur had been. But at twenty-two, Knight Danse had been older than Squire Maxson, had understood more of the circumstances behind Gautier's disappearance. It was the natural result of her free spirit being smothered by restrictions, of too many superior officers trying to force her to be like every other Knight, when what made her a force to be reckoned with was the inherent chaos that she wore like a fine perfume.

Danse finally thought he understood why Maxson had been so hesitant to make Myra take the Oath of Fidelity. Unlike the Paladins who had sought to make Gautier comply with their methods, Arthur understood that certain types of individuals had to be given a slack leash. But what could Danse do if Myra decided to tighten the collar around her own neck? The Paladin sighed. "Myra, you know there's still time to change your mind. If you want to back out, I won't stop you."

"I know," she murmured sadly, her wide eyes meeting his. "I know you'd help me if you could. That's why I have to stay. I won't let you take the fall for me, Danse."

"And I can't ask you to turn your back on your principles!" he replied. "I may not agree with you on everything, and I may think that your view on synths is dangerously misguided, but -"

Myra stopped his protest with a kiss. "I know, Danse. And if there was another way...but it's too late for that now. I've burned those bridges. And I don't...I don't regret it," she added, her lip trembling.

Danse frowned. "Yes, you do," he replied softly, his heart plagued with heartache for her. "I wish...if circumstances were different, and the ideological differences between the Brotherhood and the Railroad weren't so vast...I know you made the right choice in joining us, Myra. But I'm concerned that you don't share that sentiment."

"I made my decision," she reiterated. "I can't trust Deac...I can't trust the Railroad," Myra corrected. "The Brotherhood certainly isn't perfect, but you and Maxson have never lied to me. You've never manipulated me."

Was that true? Danse wanted to believe that he'd never forced Myra's hand. But he'd been the one who had told her about the Railroad's crimes. And even now, if it was really her love for him that had made her abandon everything she stood for… "I just…" he sighed. "Myra, I want you to be happy. And I really think that once you get to know the Brotherhood better, once you see what Arthur's trying to accomplish, that you'll be glad you're on our side. But if you're not, please don't let me be the only reason that you stay. It would...I don't know if I could forgive myself if being by my side made you so deeply unhappy."

Myra took his hand in hers, her narrow, soft fingers stroking his. "I could never be unhappy being with you. I just wish…" she cleared her throat awkwardly. "It doesn't matter," she continued, her voice cold. "What matters now is destroying the Institute. That's the only way I can help everyone. And I think the Brotherhood of Steel has the best chance of success. Nothing else matters until that awful place is in ruins."

"What happened to you in the Institute?" Danse asked, concerned. "I've gotten the impression that you haven't told me everything." He hadn't asked her for specifics, not after finding out about Shaun. The Paladin had figured he'd learn all the details from her official report. But clearly, Myra's distaste for the Institute involved more than just the loss of her family. He didn't want to push her, but he needed to understand what was driving her.

"I…" Myra stared up at him with pain in her eyes, the food in front of her forgotten. "Danse, those people...they don't seem to realize that what they're doing is wrong. That's the worst part. When I got down there, I was expecting to see, I don't know, comically evil villains? But they're just people. They're just fucking people, like you and me. So how can they do what they're doing? How could they experiment on people without their consent, or kidnap my baby?"

Danse sighed. "Who created the atomic bomb, Myra? Who engineered the FEV virus? It was human beings, driven by fear and hubris. Why should it surprise you to learn that the Institute is the same? Everyone is capable of evil. But everyone is also capable of good. It's the decisions each of us make and the consequences of those decisions that determine what sort of person we become."

"But if anyone could lose their way, could become twisted by their ambitions, what hope do we have?" Myra insisted. "What hope do any of us have? If each of us is the monster in someone else's story, maybe it would have been better if the whole world really had been destroyed. I'm tired of watching people hurt each other, Danse."

He nodded. "I certainly can understand that sentiment. It's one I share. I long for a day when war is no longer necessary, when people are free from the burdens of their ambition. That is why I joined the Brotherhood of Steel, why I believe in our mission to safeguard humanity from the dangers of technology. We have to ensure that humanity learns from our mistakes."

"And that's why I know the Institute has to be destroyed," Myra replied. "When I was there, I met some genuinely good people. People I don't want to hurt. But if they can't see by now how dangerous their ambitions really are… I'm not certain we have a choice. Especially when it comes to Shaun."

Danse stared at her. "But he's your son!"

Myra shook her head. "I gave birth to him. But I...I've never been his mother, not really. The Institute raised him. I was just genetic material."

The Paladin's gut clenched at her callous words, the way she spat out her declaration. This wasn't the Myra he knew, the woman who ran headlong into the unknown for a chance to save her baby. "What did he say to you?" he asked softly.

"It's what he didn't say that bothers me," Myra replied, her lower lip trembling as the words tumbled forth from her. "Shaun wouldn't listen to me when I told him how the people on the surface feel about the Institute. In his mind, no one on the surface matters. It's like the whole Commonwealth is just a lab experiment to him. He sees everyone here as obsolete, worthless. And it seems that most of the people in the Institute share that sentiment. They either don't care about the surface or they're too focused on their research to give it much thought. I'd prefer it if they hated us. At least that would be something we could work with. But they don't hate us, at least not all of them. They're merely indifferent to us. And that's so much worse."

Danse nodded. "We've suspected as much. Ever since the Brotherhood first began encountering members of the Institute, it's been the same. Cold calculation, a disregard for collateral damage...they remind me of the Enclave, in a lot of ways."

"Who are the Enclave?" Myra asked, curious. "You've mentioned them before, but you've never told me much about them."

"They were the greatest enemies of the Brotherhood of Steel," Danse replied, "Dedicated to the destruction of everyone who was born on the surface. They considered themselves the last 'pure' humans, untainted by radiation. Where the Brotherhood has always sought to protect humanity, the Enclave had only sought to control it. About ten years ago, the Enclave attempted to 'purify' the surface by releasing a virus into the water supply. Like the Institute, they seemed to believe that this was somehow for the good of humanity, or the so-called 'pure' humans, at least."

Myra frowned. "I'm assuming that the Enclave failed, since the Wasteland is still full of people."

The Paladin nodded. "In the end, we managed to defeat them, but not without heavy losses. The Eastern Brotherhood of Steel was significantly weakened for a long time, before Elder Maxson took control and rebuilt our forces. Some Enclave remnants still crawl out of the rubble from time to time, but they are hardly the threat they once were." He frowned. "If the Institute is determined to follow the same path, we don't have a choice. We have to put a stop to their machinations."

"I don't want to hurt my baby," Myra murmured, "but I just can't see any way past what he's done, what he stands for. You're right. We have to stop the Institute, Danse. We have to stop my son."

"I know this is going to be difficult for you, Myra," Danse replied, taking her hand in his. "But if it's any consolation, I promise that I'll be by your side the entire time. You don't have to face this battle alone."

She nodded, her eyes misty with tears. "I always thought that the worst pain imaginable would be burying a child," she said, her voice cracking. "But I was wrong. Knowing I have to kill him...that's far worse than anything I had imagined. I know it's what I have to do, but what if...what if I can't? What if I stare into his eyes...my own eyes, and can't pull the trigger?"

"Then I'll be by your side, giving you all the support I can," the Paladin said. He rose from the table and walked around to her, kneeling by her side. He carefully wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her tightly against his side. "I could do it for you, if you needed me to."

She shook her head, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder. "I have to do it, Danse. Shaun's my responsibility. And I...I don't know if I could forgive you if you killed him. He's a monster. He's undeniably dangerous. But he's still my son. His death is my sin to carry."

Danse nodded, stroking her back comfortingly. He understood what she meant, more than she could possibly understand. It was the same way he'd felt about killing Cutler, the closest thing to a real family he'd ever known before meeting Myra. It still haunted him, Cutler's mutated face, those eyes which still carried the faintest hint of the man he'd known. But Danse did not regret being the one to pull the trigger. He knew that Cutler would have wanted it that way, a last act of mercy. The Paladin knew that Myra must have felt the same way about her son. If a life had to be taken, wasn't it better if it were taken out of love? "I understand," he replied softly. "But I love you, and I will never flinch from sharing your burdens, no matter what that entails. I hope you understand that."

Myra looked over at him, her eyes brimming with tears. She cupped his chin in her hand, pressing her lips to his. For a long moment, neither of them moved, neither of them spoke. There was no need. Whatever regrets either of them carried, whatever horrible decisions awaited them, at least they had each other.

Eventually, Myra pulled away, her cheeks stained with silent tears. "Let's go home," she murmured. "I've been putting this off for too long. Maxson deserves to know what I've learned."

The Paladin brushed her tears away carefully with his thumb. "Outstanding," he murmured, a soft smile on his lips. There she was, his strong, beautiful girl. Now that she'd made up her mind, Danse knew that there was no dissuading Myra. The Institute would fall. The Brotherhood would save the Commonwealth. There was nothing more certain in Danse's mind than that.

Myra blushed, dragging his hand away from her face. "Stop fussing, T. You're embarrassing me."

He relented, groaning as he stood to return to his seat. "Well, I suppose we're having a cold breakfast," he observed.

She frowned. "I'm not sure Mirelurk eggs are better or worse cold. The fishy aftertaste's just not great either way."

The Paladin nodded in agreement as he ate, choking down the cool, viscous food. Surprisingly, it wasn't as bad as he'd thought it would be, but it still was fairly disgusting. He looked over at Myra, who was unenthusiastically poking at her plate. "Unpleasant or not, you need the energy," he chided. "It's a long flight back to the airport, and it's your turn to to man the minigun."

Myra groaned, gagging as she forced the food down her throat. "That's the last time I let you coax me into a heart-to-heart before breakfast," she muttered.

Danse couldn't help but smile as he tucked back into his meal. It was good to see her back to her old self, even if he knew that the turmoil inside her was far from resolved. As long as she could keep moving forward, could summon the strength to do the impossible, that was something he could work with. The rest would just have to wait until their mission was complete.

Once their plates were cleared, Danse and Myra began packing their belongings. There wasn't much to take, to be honest. They'd left most of Myra's possessions back at the Castle, and what provisions they'd brought were mostly gone. There were a few pieces of valuable salvage that Danse had collected in his excursions, but it only took the better part of an hour to collect what they needed to take.

As Myra began to shove odds and ends in her backpack, Danse paused, clearing his throat. "Myra… we need to talk before we return to the _Prydwen_."

"About what, exactly?" she asked, continuing to fill her pack with their belongings.

"I...er...about our relationship," he replied. "You know it's technically inappropriate for us to be together. We will need to be extremely careful."

Myra sighed, her shoulders drooping. "Right. The whole chain of command thing. Shit. I'd completely forgotten."

Danse had not forgotten. For once, he'd merely decided to ignore regulation, and he didn't regret his choice. He could never regret being involved with Myra. But reality was about to hit, and hard. They both needed to be prepared for the uproar their relationship might cause. "Elder Maxson has already refused to transfer you to another sponsor, so I'm not sure we will be able to make our relationship public, at least for the time being."

Myra frowned. "I understand," she said bitterly. "Heaven forbid anyone in the Brotherhood actually admits to having feelings. Being surrounded by so much repression's worse than holidays with my in-laws sometimes."

The Paladin groaned internally. She was upset. Of course she was. "I hope you understand that I want to publicly acknowledge our relationship more than anything," he said calmly, trying to placate her. "There is nothing in the world that I treasure more than you."

"Except for your precious decorum," she muttered.

Danse shook his head. "No, Myra. You're more important to me than even decorum. But the rules exist for a reason. I don't want to see you get hurt because people think you're being given special treatment. I've seen it happen. It never ends well. The only reason I'm not planning on commandeering the Prydwen' s PA system and announcing how much I love you to the whole ship is because I don't want you to be treated unfairly. Do you understand?"

She looked up at him, her emerald eyes sparkling mischievously. "I...Wow. You mean you've actually thought about doing that? Could you imagine the look on Captain Kells' face?"

He smiled back at her. "Only every day for the last week. It would almost be worth the punishment, honestly. But if anything happened to you because of it…"

She stood on her tiptoes, pressing her lips to his. "I know, Danse. It's ok. We'll figure this out. After everything we've been through, I'm not going to lose you now just because of the Brotherhood of Steel's regulations. If that means we have to keep our relationship secret for now, I think I can manage that."

"Outstanding," he replied, kissing her in return. Danse wrapped his arms around her, reveling in the feeling of her body pressed up against his. It might be a long time before he had a chance to embrace her like this again, and like hell was he going to pass up the opportunity.

Myra clung to him desperately, as though the same thoughts raced through her mind. She deepened the kiss, her tongue gliding urgently over his chapped lips, begging for an opening. Danse relented readily, allowing her tongue to slip inside his mouth with a quiet moan. Damn, he was going to miss this.

"I love you," she gasped hungrily against his lips, and Danse felt a current rush through his entire body at her words. Every time she spoke them felt like a miracle, like somehow in spite of the danger and uncertainty that awaited them, those simple words were a promise that everything was going to be okay in the end.

"I love you too," he replied, breathless. Danse let her go with an instant twinge of regret. There was nothing he wanted more than to spend the rest of the day proving to her that he adored her. But the mission had to come first. Once the Institute was dealt with, they'd have all the time in the world to spend together. He had to believe that.

He glanced at the thin gold band she still wore around her neck, her wedding ring. Danse sighed, trying not to think about her past. Had she and Nate also believed that they had time, before their world had been obliterated? Was he deluding himself, thinking that fate wouldn't deal them a similar hand? In his mind, he saw a second band beside the first, another token of a fallen partner, another horrible weight for her to carry. Would either of them be able to endure it if they lost each other, now that they knew how they felt?

Myra grabbed his hand, drawing his gaze back to her worried eyes. "T, what's wrong?"

He forced himself to smile. "I'm just contemplating the future," he replied. "It's nothing that should alarm you."

"If you say so," Myra retorted, clearly not convinced. All the same, she let him be and resumed her packing. "Ah! There you are!" she muttered, holding up a holotape. "Man, Ingram would be pissed if I lost this."

Danse eyed the tape with interest. "That's the data Proctor Ingram asked you to bring back from the Institute, isn't it?" he asked.

Myra nodded. "Yeah."

The Paladin sighed in relief. "I'd nearly forgotten all about that. It's a good thing you didn't lose that holotape. Do you have any idea what information you managed to retrieve?"

Myra shook her head, tossing the holotape in her pack. "Not a damn clue. What I was able to see was too garbled to identify. I hope it's something useful, and not like, a bunch of casserole recipes."

"Proctor Quinlan would say that there is no such thing as useless information," Danse replied. "But I concur. If we're very fortunate, that data could be the key to defeating the Institute."

"If not, at least the food in the mess hall might improve," Myra joked. She closed her pack, swinging it over her shoulder. "Well, I think that's everything. Gotta say, I'm going to miss this place."

Danse nodded. "I will as well." He grabbed a fresh fusion core for his armor, as well as a signal grenade. "I suppose it's time to go," he said.

Myra nodded, slipping her hand in his and giving it one last comforting squeeze. "Hey, it'll all work out, Danse. Somehow."

Danse hoped Myra was right. Failure was simply not an option. Not now that he'd finally found something to truly call his own. No matter what, he wasn't going to ever let her go.

* * *

**_A/N: Well, damn. That holotape...Damn it, Myra, this was supposed to be a cute chapter!_**

**_Sorry for the late post again! I really am trying not to make a habit out of it!_**

**_Also, I just started playing "The Evil Within 2," and I'd completely forgotten that Castellanos' wife was named Myra. Making Nate's middle name Sebastian had been a deliberate nod to the franchise, but hers was not intentional. Man, my subconscious must really have loved the first game, huh?_**

**_NEXT CHAPTER: Deacon and Trailblazer return to HQ and face Desdemona's wrath._**


	11. The Catacombs

**11\. The Catacombs**

_**Deacon and Trailblazer return to HQ, where Desdemona is waiting to debrief them.**_

* * *

Deacon crept through the back entrance to HQ, trying to work up the courage to face Dez. Even with Trail agreeing to come home, he knew that the Railroad's leader wasn't going to be pleased with his efforts. Why would she be? Deacon had put their entire organization at risk, and for what? A sentimental interest in a woman who'd callously cast him aside the second she thought she had a real shot at the guy she'd been ogling for the last half a year? The spy knew how it looked. Hell, it was pathetic. But even knowing that, even being fully aware of the consequences, he'd still decided to let Myra go. That action wouldn't go unnoticed or unpunished, though he hoped Trailblazer's presence would lessen the blow somewhat.

The young intelligence agent in question splashed through the sewer behind him, her eyes screwed up with disgust. "So this is where HQ is now?" she groaned. "If I'd known I'd have to wade through a half mile of ancient sewage, I wouldn't have ever left Stanwix!"

Deacon grinned. "Maybe we should put that in the brochure. 'Hey, kids, don't desert your post, or you're gonna have to swim through 200-year-old fecal matter!' That would do wonders for agent retention."

Trail scoffed, doing her best to avoid the worst of it. "You know, I get the whole secret organization thing, but would it kill Dez to let us live somewhere nice for a change? With better smells, at least?"

"Hey, now, HQ isn't so bad," Deacon teased. "Once you get used to sleeping next to the dead, it's actually pretty cozy. 'Course, that might be because everyone has to buddy up on mattresses. Well, or sleep in a sarcophagus."

Trailblazer sighed. "I thought it was bad enough living under a graveyard. Living in one just seems so much worse somehow."

"Yeah," Deacon replied, pulling the entrance open and ushering her inside, "but I'll bet you didn't have a bar in your graveyard."

She looked around the small lounge in wonder. "Deacon, did you make this?"

He nodded. "Welcome to the _Crossbuck_, your mildewy little oasis from the existential horror of being alive! It took some persuading, but man, the results speak for themselves."

"I'll say," Trail responded, preparing to flop down on one of the worn chairs. Deacon uttered a muffled cry, grabbing her arm.

"After we get cleaned up would be better," he said, gesturing to their slime-encrusted pants. "Do you know how hard it is to get sewer water out of upholstery?"

"No, but I bet that you're going to inform me," she teased.

"It's pretty damn difficult," Deacon said with a grin. "Like, me stealing your toothbrush to scrub it out by hand difficult."

Trailblazer's laughter filled the air. "Fine. Do you have any spare clothes? All I've got is my Minuteman uniform, and I have a feeling that Dez wouldn't appreciate me wearing that to our meeting."

"That's probably a good call," Deacon agreed. He reached behind the bookshelf, pulling out a bundle and tossing it to her. "Might be a bit tight in the chest, you know, since it's mine."

"I'll just cross my arms," Trail said. "Thanks."

"You can thank me after Dez is done doling out punishments," Deacon grumbled. "I have a feeling that neither of us are coming out of this one in a good mood."

"Well, what did you expect, Deacon?" she replied, peeling her disgusting clothes off. "We both broke the rules. I certainly wasn't expecting a parade and barbecue in my honor."

The spy covered his eyes with his hand, blushing. "There's a changing room, like, right over there, Trail. Geez."

"Oh. Right," she replied awkwardly. "Sorry! I got used to living alone, and then in the women's dorm at the Castle, so I just...whoops."

"Well, I appreciate that you're so comfortable around me," Deacon muttered. "But still, you wanna start a rumor about us again? 'Cause that's how rumors happen, Trail."

Trailblazer groaned. "Hell no! I remember how bad it was the last time. You and Tommy constantly making eyes at each other didn't help things at all. Half of the Switchboard thought all three of us were...and you didn't do a damn thing to change their minds, either. I swear, the two of you took it as a challenge."

"Hey, we could have been a thing!" Deacon protested jokingly. "We would have been the best menage that ever trois-ed! But then the two of you had to go ruin it with your whole actually being in a relationship thing. Which, by the way, I was deliberately trying to protect by seeding misinformation about our hypothetical antics, in case you hadn't figured that out. No one would have ever suspected that there was anything actually going on if you two hadn't gotten caught."

"Yeah, well, as much as I appreciate your oh-so-gracious sacrifice," she replied with a snort, "you and I both know that it would never have happened. You're like, basically my weird uncle."

"...Which is why you decided to change in front of me," Deacon stated flatly. "Yeah. That's...pretty classy, Trail."

"I didn't...oh, hell," Trailblazer sighed. "Well, you can look now."

Deacon uncovered his eyes, sighing with relief as his former student stood before him, fully clothed. As he'd predicted, the faded red shirt was a little tight on her, so he offered her his leather jacket. "So, where'd you park your Lone Wanderer?" he joked. "Typically, HQ is valet only, but hey, I'm not gonna push it."

Trailblazer chuckled. "I don't think I have enough tattoos to be a biker," she replied, "even if I could get one of those suckers to run."

The spy thought for a moment. "Do you think you get a motorcycle because you have tats, or you get the tattoos because you have a motorcycle?"

She shook her head. "If this is another one of your stupid gay bar problems…"

"Hey!" Deacon protested jokingly. "That's a serious conundrum! How does a bar become a gay bar? Does the owner decide it's a gay bar, or do gay people just show up and make it one? Been wondering that for years!"

Trailblazer rolled her eyes. "Something tells me that no matter what answer you get to that question, you're going to be disappointed."

"Such is the fate of an intellectual," the spy sighed dramatically. "Speaking of disappointment, you ready to face Dez?"

She gulped. "Can I be honest with you?"

"A bad habit," Deacon mused, "but I'm not gonna get in your way."

"I felt a lot braver about this back at the Castle," Trail replied, her deep brown eyes fixed on his face. "Don't get me wrong, I still wanna help. I just...that woman took everything from me before, and here I am, offering up all that I have left on a platter. Am I crazy?"

"Well, since you're doing it for me for some reason," the spy retorted, "yeah. I'd say you're totally out of your mind. But I appreciate it, more than you could possibly know." He pulled the elastic out of her hair gently, rebraiding her raven waves with dexterous fingers. "Gotta make you presentable for the execution block." After he finished the braid, he pulled back, admiring his handiwork. "Yeah, that's a nice Anne Boleyn look. What about me? Does my hair look okay?"

Trailblazer snorted, rubbing his bald head. "You look like a bowling ball in sunglasses, so I think you're about as presentable as you're gonna get."

Deacon smirked. "Cool! Nice to know that even after decapitation, I'll be able to keep people entertained." He mimed sticking his fingers and thumb into his mouth and eye sockets, laughing to himself at the visual. "So, you ready?"

She nodded. "Let's get this over with."

They walked into the main hall, Deacon leading the way. He tried to ignore the whispers from the agents they passed, and he hoped beyond hope that Trail was doing the same. She'd heard it all before, of course, when she'd been banished, but now that she was a deserter as well as a rule-breaker, Deacon really didn't want to think about what people were saying. The Railroad was a family, but like all families, bad blood and dysfunction wormed their way through the proverbial tree. Deacon wasn't sure how many agents were genuinely angry that Trail had violated one of Dez's main tenets and how many were just jealous that she and Tommy had been able to get away with their romantic relationship for so long, but in the end, the result was the same. On the day that Trail had been sent to Stanwix, no one had stood up to protect her. No one except for Deacon.

He still wasn't sure why he'd intervened on her behalf back then. Was it because she was his student, or because Tommy Whispers was his almost-friend? Or had it been even more personal? Was it because he, too, was an outcast, in spite of his position? Deacon knew full well that he wasn't exactly liked by most of the Railroad. Sure, there were a few people who seemed to find him amusing, and even a couple agents who were friendly with him. But given the nature of his job, as well as his constant lying...it really wasn't a surprise that people were wary around him, that they whispered behind his back as well. And hell, Deacon knew he deserved it, even if the others had no clue why. He'd learned not to care what everyone else said about him. But to hear them go after Trailblazer, who was kind and sweet and way, way too honest for her own good...that didn't sit well with him.

But this time, he couldn't defend her. This time, Trail had decided to defend him instead, and while Deacon was moved by her sacrifice, he hated himself for putting her in this position. When had he become so weak, so pathetic? After years of building up an exoskeleton of deception and self-loathing, Deacon had felt practically invincible. But in just a matter of months, Myra had stripped him bare, had cast him out on the street as a cold, naked, mewling thing, exposed and defenseless. For once in as long as he could remember, Deacon wasn't sure he was going to land on his feet, and he hated the fact that he was dragging Trailblazer down with him.

Desdemona stood by her stone dais, watching them approach with a savage glint in her russet eyes. Deacon felt her ire piece through him long before she began to speak. The words just made it so much worse. "Well, Deacon," Dez said, her voice frigid, "I see you've finally managed to bring Trailblazer home. I was beginning to think you'd...lost your touch."

"Have I ever given you any cause to doubt me?" he replied, his heart racing with trepidation.

"Hmmm. I wonder…" Dez mused. She turned to look at Trailblazer. "Care to tell me what the hell you were thinking, abandoning your post? In case you've forgotten, Trailblazer, we are in the middle of a war for our lives. The last thing the Railroad needs are agents who can't keep their personal lives out of the way of their duty."

"I…" Trailblazer paled, her eyes brimming with tears. "I understand. I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Dez laughed bitterly. "Do you have any idea what could have happened if the Institute had gotten ahold of you? You put everyone in our organization at risk with your little tantrum, and you think an apology is going to cut it?" She shook her head. "I had hoped that a few months of solitary work at Stanwix would have helped you remember your priorities. But you haven't changed a bit, have you? Ridiculous." Desdemona sighed. "Can you at least tell me if you managed to gain any valuable intel on the Minutemen while you were with them?"

Deacon froze. "Wait. You knew where she was, the whole time? How?"

Dez shushed him with a finger to her lips. "Roll up your sleeve, Trailblazer," she whispered. "The left one."

The agent did as she was commanded, pushing the leather jacket up with trembling fingers. There, about an inch above her elbow, was a small scar, the skin slightly raised beneath it. Trailblazer touched the scar cautiously, her eyes wide. "What the hell?" she murmured in horror. "When did this...what the hell?"

"You can't be serious," Deacon hissed softly, his heart pounding wildly. "Is that what I think it is?"

Desdemona nodded. "Unlike some agents who will remain nameless, I'm not a short-sighted woman. Before Trailblazer was exiled, I asked Tinker Tom to embed a tracking device in her arm. It's been my policy for all flight risks, Deacon. Didn't I tell you?"

He shook his head. "No, I'm afraid that wasn't part of your leadership acceptance speech. So what was this, then? A test?"

"One you very nearly failed," the Railroad's leader said coolly. "Of course, I'm happy you didn't."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Deacon hissed quietly. Now he understood why Desdemona wanted them to discuss this quietly. The Railroad was known for keeping secrets from each other. But something like this... "We've known each other for what, fifteen years now? How could you...after all we've been through, why would you do something like this to me now?"

Desdemona sighed. "Deacon...I've been testing you for years. And not just you. You have to understand, the safely of the Railroad depends on absolute obedience and caution. I learned that from Pinky Thompson's mistakes. Until recently, you were always one of my most dependable agents. You never failed a test, not until a few months ago. But now, I have to admit, I'm worried about your performance, your commitment. Something's changed, and I'm not sure what it is, though I have a few guesses. You have to get your head on straight, Deacon, and soon. Otherwise…"

Trailblazer listened to Desdemona's explanation with growing turmoil in her eyes. "So I...I was never free," she murmured. "I was never going to escape, was I?"

Deacon felt bile rise in his throat. "Dez, I knew you were paranoid, and hell, you've got good reasons to be. But what you've done is way over the line. Even if I wasn't involved, do you honestly think I'd be okay with this? If everyone else knew...God, Dez, you can't imprison your own agents like this!"

"Or job is too important for half-measures, Deacon!" she snarled, a little louder than Deacon thought she intended to be. "I thought you of all people understood that. We're the only hope the synths have of being free. That's worth losing a few of our own liberties."

Deacon shook his head. "No. It's not. Dez, can't you see that you're using the same logic the Institute is? You start planting trackers on people without their knowledge, and next thing you know, you're programming people's brains to follow your every command without question. It's immoral!"

"And you're going to lecture me on morality?" Desdemona rolled her eyes. "Tell me, Deacon, how many lies have you told over the years to manipulate circumstances in your favor? You're in no position to criticize what I've done to ensure that the Railroad survives. What we do is too important. The synths need us. You know that. We can't risk annihilation, no matter the cost."

Deacon clenched his fists in frustration. She had him there. And given the delicate circumstances in which he currently found himself, the last thing he wanted was a fight. "We'll talk about this later," he warned, before painting his usual cheeky grin back onto his face. "Well, there's one agent, delivered as promised," he continued in a cheery voice that was almost genuine. "What's next on the agenda?"

Dez's eyes softened, a hint of triumph glittering in their depths. "P.A.M. wanted to see you as soon as you got back. Something about intel from Salem?"

Deacon groaned. Shit. The watch. As far as he knew, Myra still had the silver band in her possession, the coded message still concealed in its battery compartment. How had he forgotten to get that back from her before letting her go? This was bad. This was beyond bad, and nearly into disastrous. The last thing he needed was another disaster right now. "Whisper has the intel we need," he said.

Dez smiled. "Finally, some good news for a change! Where is she?"

The spy gulped. "There is one other, tiny little detail I should probably mention," Deacon said nervously. "Whisper's...gone."

"Gone?" Desdemona asked, her eyes wide. "What do you mean, gone?"

Deacon scratched the back of his neck. "She's kinda...decided to join the Brotherhood of Steel full time. But look!" He gestured back to Trailblazer. "That still leaves us with only one agent in the wind, so we're no worse off than we were before if you think about it, right?"

"Are you serious, Deacon?" Dez snarled, her eyes alight with hellish fury. "Did you really think that I'd let you off the hook just because you brought Trailblazer back into the fold, which, by the way, was something that I ordered you to do months ago? What the hell were you thinking, letting Whisper defect?"

"I was thinking that she'd be of more use to us alive than dead," Deacon replied coolly, trying to ignore the fear fighting to be free inside him. "An asset in the wind can be reclaimed, Dez. A dead asset? Not so much."

"That isn't your call to make!" the Railroad leader snapped. "After all the time you've worked for us, after all the near-misses, all the deaths of your fellow agents, do you really not understand that what you do affects the rest of us as well? You're welcome to risk your own life for a pretty face, Deacon. But how dare you risk the lives of everyone in HQ? I thought you were smarter than that."

Deacon gulped. "Dez, I-"

"I'm not finished!" she yelled. "It's bad enough that I let you talk me into recruiting someone so enamored with our enemies. It was against my better judgement, but I trusted you to protect our family. After all, you've never failed us before. You've never failed me before. I restored your place here in HQ, in spite of a slew of protests. I've defended you when agents have complained about your lies, your...eccentric habits. And I knew that was a risk, given your track record, but it was a risk I took because no one in this organization can track down intel the way you can. We needed you, Deacon. Hell, we still need you. But I'll be damned if I let you off your leash again."

"What exactly does that mean?" Deacon replied softly. "Are you gonna chip me too, Dez?"

"You're on probation, starting immediately," Dez commanded. "No leaving HQ without an escort. And yes, you'll be getting a tracking device in case you decide to slip your tail. Until I'm certain that you're trustworthy, you'll have no direct contact with other agents outside of HQ. And most importantly, no deviating from your missions. I give you an order, and you will make it happen, or you can't even begin to imagine what I'll do to you. Is that clear?"

Deacon frowned. "But Dez, I can't do my job if I'm -"

"Is that clear, Deacon?" she hissed.

The spy dropped his gaze to his worn leather boots. "Yes," he mumbled. Deacon had been expecting a reprimand, of course. Saving Myra's life had been a clear violation of Desdemona's orders. But he hadn't expected a tail. This was bad. No, it was beyond bad. No one in the Railroad blended as well as Deacon did. An extra agent snooping around increased Deacon's likelihood of getting caught almost tenfold. It was a death sentence for whatever unlucky bastard was assigned to follow him, certainly. Hell, Deacon would be lucky if he himself managed to survive. He was hamstrung, crippled, useless with Dez's restrictions, and that was the truth. It would have been easier if she'd just had him shot.

Dez smiled at him, her teeth shark-like in the dim light. "I'm glad that we understand each other." She turned to Trailblazer. "I want you to wait in the _Crossbuck_ . I need to know everything you've learned about the Minutemen: their troop movements, strength, regulations, hell, what they have for lunch. Whatever you know. Tell me enough, and I'll consider reinstating you at Stanwix. Under guard, of course."

Trail gasped. "But I...they're my friends!"

"And we're your family, in case you've forgotten," Dez warned. "You remember what your life was like when Deacon found you. Do you really want to go back to that?"

Deacon grimaced. He'd tried to blot out the day he'd met Trail, a terrified young woman more scab than skin, her dark eyes wild and haunted as she'd cowered in the alley behind the Faded Glory Laundromat in Lexington. She was barely able to speak, communicating primarily in whimpers as the spy tried to find out what had happened to her. In the end, he'd never gotten a straight answer out of her, but at least he'd gotten her fed and her wounds tended to. It was foolish, wasting Railroad resources on a human, but once Trailblazer had earned her place in the organization, Deacon had thought that she'd gotten a pass, that Dez wouldn't find a way to use her past circumstances to keep her in line. He should have known better.

"Of course I don't," Trail murmured in defeat. "I just…"

"If Whisper's in the wind, we can't trust anyone she's affiliated with," Dez continued. "I hope it doesn't come to that, but we need to be prepared if the Minutemen make a move on us. I will not leave our family defenseless just because you got yourself emotionally invested in outsiders. So you'll do as you're told."

The younger woman nodded, slinking off towards the lounge. Deacon's heart ached for her, even as he tried to remain detached. He'd been afraid that this would happen, but he'd hoped that Dez would be gentler with Trail.

Desdemona hadn't always been this cold. Hell, there were plenty of days when Deacon could almost see the agent he'd first met, an eager, green recruit with a passion for saving synth lives that outshone most of her fellows. That fire that now seared all who approached her had been warmer, once, her fierce smile had been more genuine. But the weight of command and more losses of life over her tenure as leader had twisted her into the woman she was now, for better or worse. In a lot of ways, Dez had become exactly what the Railroad needed to survive. But at the same time, Deacon couldn't help but miss the enthusiastic, compassionate young woman she had been.

Perhaps it was the nature of command to destroy those carrying that responsibility. Power corrupted people, certainly. But bearing the weight of lives? That had to do something to a person as well. Deacon thought about Myra, about her lackadaisical approach to leadership. He'd always found her desire to dodge her responsibilities to be a major flaw in her personality. But the more he thought about it, the more he began to realize that maybe her actions were just a form of self-preservation. Myra and Dez hadn't been so different. Would a more responsible Myra eventually become like the Railroad's leader, bitter and paranoid?

Dez cleared her throat aggressively. "Do you have any objections, Deacon?"

He shook his head. "I wouldn't dream of it, Dez."

"Hmmm…" she replied. "Good. Maybe you can learn some new tricks after all. Now, as to your assignment, I'm afraid we've got bigger problems than just your horrible mismanagement of your department, Deacon. We've lost another six agents in the last month, all found in the same state as your tourist in Salem. The Watchers aren't just watching any more, it seems."

Deacon frowned. "That's...really bad news," he murmured. "Damn. I was hoping it was just a fluke. But what does that have to do with me?"

"I need you to capture a Watcher," Dez replied, "preferably intact."

"And do what with it?" Deacon asked, wide-eyed. "Bring it here? I didn't know you wanted Institute takeout service that badly."

"Of course not. But we need to get a better look at one, try to figure out what we're dealing with. If we're going to fight back against this new threat to our organization, we need as much information as possible. Were they designed to kill? If so, why only start picking us off now? Are they malfunctioning? If that's the case, can we use their rogue programming to our advantage?"

Deacon shrugged. "No offense, boss, but I'm not exactly a robotics genius. You need a book review or a great calzone recipe, I'm your guy. But evil synth birds intent on killing us all? That's not really in my wheelhouse."

"That's why I'm sending you with some help." Desdemona walked over towards Tinker Tom's workshop, aggressively gesturing to Deacon to follow her. "Tom, is it ready?"

The eccentric inventor looked at her, confused. "Is what ready? The quantum signal jammer? That's still in the prototype stage, you know that."

"Not that," Dez groaned. "You know, the little robot you said you were almost finished with three days ago?"

Tom grinned. "Oh. You mean Tracey! Yeah, she's ready! Cute as a button, too, if I do say so myself." He rooted around in a large metal bin for a moment. "All she needs is just one more teensy little part that I swear I left right...here! Hah! There we go!" He pulled a small, needle-like piece of metal free from his sleeve. "Now how did you get there?" he asked, cocking his head as if expecting the part to answer. After a moment, he returned to his workbench and slid the piece into what looked like a child's toy designed in hell.

Tracey was fashioned from the head of a Giddyup Buttercup, with long, leathery wings supported by thin metal struts sprouting from what had been the unfortunate metal pony's eye sockets. Tinker Tom had attempted to make the device less nightmare-inducing by adding a small robotic head to the horse's nose, as well as a set of four spindly mechanical legs and a fin-like tail, but it did little to quell the existential dread that filled Deacon as he gazed upon what the mad scientist had wrought. Its face terminated in the thin needle, which gave the little robot a bloodbug-like proboscis. This merely added to the horror.

Tom looked at the dumbfounded expressions on their faces and smiled. "Isn't she just awe-inspiring? I'm thinking of making a whole flock of little brothers and sisters for her."

"Oh, yeah. That'd be just the coolest!" Deacon declared sarcastically.

"Wouldn't it be?" Tinker Tom agreed, clearly failing to pick up on the spy's tone. Typical. "Every agent should have one! She's got top-of-the-line surveillance, solar panels along the top of her body to keep her fed, enough memory to store a week's worth of data."

Deacon whistled in appreciation in spite of himself. "How'd you manage to cram all that into such a compact little robot?" he asked.

"You know I've got my ways," the inventor said cryptically. "But all that's not even the best part! Check this out!" Tinker Tom grabbed a chunk of unidentifiable meat from a filthy bowl on his desk and set it down in front of the dreadful abomination.

Tracey beeped softly for a few seconds before lunging forward, skewering the flesh with her proboscis. "Analyzing," the robot declared in a tinny feminine voice. It whirred and clicked for a moment before withdrawing its beak. "Substance...analyzed. 73 percent...water. 19 percent...protein. 5...percent lipids. Trace amounts of phos-phor-us, ash...potassium, calcium, and...glycogen. Analysis: muscle...tissue. Bovine." It made a soft chiming sound, as if congratulating itself for identifying the meat.

"Atta girl, Tracey!" Tinker Tom cried, offering the little robot a high five. It lunged forward with its beak again, almost skewering Tom's hand, and Deacon cried out in alarm. At the last moment, Tracey paused, beeped a few times, then extended a leg to touch Tom's palm, whirring all the while.

"Well, that was terrifying," Deacon whispered to Dez. "Thanks for the floor show. I'd better get going." He tried to slink away, but Dez caught him by his collar.

"Not so fast," she grumbled. "You're taking Tracey with you. We can't risk bringing a Watcher back for Tom to analyze, so Tracey will collect all the data she can on the Institute's little spies. Your job is to make sure she gets back here in one piece. Don't forget the last time one of Tom's projects got destroyed."

Deacon shuddered. "I'd really rather not remember it." The inventor had been inconsolable for weeks, buttering around his workshop with the most pathetic, hang-dog expression on his face that Deacon had ever seen. It had been a dark time for everyone in HQ. "Do you think I could do something else? No offense, but needles aren't exactly my favorite."

"I don't recall giving you much of a choice, Deacon," Dez said sharply. The spy groaned internally when he saw a glint of amusement in her eyes. That bitch. She was enjoying this. "If you didn't want to be assigned to robot daycare, then you shouldn't have screwed up so royally. You're lucky the Railroad can't afford to lose you, or you wouldn't even be allowed to leave HQ. Remember that."

"Trust me, Dez, I'm grateful for the...well, it's definitely more than a second chance," he replied. "Whatever you need, I'm your guy. And you're right. We have to find out why the Watchers are targeting our agents like this. Why haven't they killed before? Why now?"

Tinker Tom perked up. "Well, I've actually got a few theories about that, if you've got the time."

Deacon groaned internally. Usually, Tom's insane conspiracy theories were good for a laugh, but he wasn't exactly in the mood. All the same, Deacon had always felt bad for how quickly everyone dismissed the engineer's ideas. The old guy was crazy, certainly. But in Deacon's experience, even an insane lead was better than none at all. "Lay 'em on me, Tom!" He said with a grin.

"Well, I think that your friend Whisper triggered something when she arrived at the Institute. Now I'm not sure if she did it on purpose, but you know those crazy sons of bitches love them some genetic fingerprints, you follow?"

"Uh...I guess?" Deacon replied.

"I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but these attacks all started around the time the Brotherhood of Steel fired up that Signal Interceptor of theirs. I'll bet that Whisper's arrival in the Institute's super-secret lab was a signal, and the worst part is that it was in her DNA the whole time! I knew she was too perfect. Not a single nucleotide out of place. Dr. Carrington said it was normal, that there wasn't anything to worry about. But that's what Elder Maxson wanted you to think."

"Elder Maxson?" Deacon asked, confused. "What does he have to do with any of this?"

"I'm glad you asked," Tinker Tom replied, tapping the side of his head. "Guy's an Institute plant. It's all right there in front of you. You've just gotta look at the evidence. The Brotherhood of Steel just showed up out of nowhere. Why? To fight the Institute? Wrong! They are the Institute, don't you get it? The real Brotherhood of Steel was taken over ten years ago. Every single one of them are genetically engineered supersoldiers created by the Institute to throw us off their real mission."

"Which is?" Deacon asked, by now completely unsure if he was baffled or impressed.

"To kill everybody in the Wasteland and replace them with perfect Synthetic duplicates, stuff that makes our gen-3 friends look like children's toys. I'm talking fully functioning, growing, sexually-reproducing mechanical people, slaves to the Institute and their every whim, man! A new master race to populate and rebuild the world!"

"Well, that doesn't sound too bad," Deacon mused. "I mean, if a synth could have kids, their humanity would be that much more apparent to people."

"Yeah, but there wouldn't be anyone else left to care one way or the other! We're talking a Total Extinction Event, Deacon! And the plan's already in motion. Has been for a long time. Everyone was just too blind to see it. But not me. And now, you know, too."

"Well," Desdemona moaned, "that was certainly...enlightening, Tom. Now, Deacon, if you're done wasting everyone's time, I believe you have a job to do."

The spy nodded, carefully scooping Tracey up in his arms. The horrifying little robot trilled softly before wiggling out of his grasp and climbing up his arm. It perched on his shoulder, wings folded carefully around itself, and beeped happily. "Well, one good thing about your creepy friend, Tom, is that I doubt I'll ding anything worse out in the Commonwealth," Deacon groaned, craning his delicate neck flesh as far from Tracey as possible.

"Aww, man, don't talk to her like that!" Tinker Tom cried out in dismay. "Her components aren't the only thing about her that's sensitive!" Tracey made a sad sort of whimpering beep, hanging her beaked head. "Now apologize."

Deacon sighed, cautiously stroking the little machine's back. "I'm sorry, Tracey," he mumbled. "I'm just in a bad mood." The robot seemed to perk up, and Deacon winced as it sank its metal claws into his shoulder. "I...oww...I think she's gonna be fine, Tom!" he yelped.

The inventor laughed. "See? She likes you!"

The spy groaned. This was going to be one of his worst missions ever. He just knew it.

* * *

_**A/N: Sometimes I worry that I made Dez too much of a bitch. Sometimes. But I think that she's actually a really interesting character in the fact that she's so passionate about saving synths but not particularly great about helping other people. I think we all have those blind spots in our lives sometimes.**_

_**No second chapter this week, I'm afraid. I'm going to be out of town for the rest of the week with no access to a computer. But I'll be back at it on Tuesday, promise! **_

_**NEXT CHAPTER: Danse and Myra experience technical difficulties on their next mission.**_


	12. The Oath

**12\. The Oath**

**_Myra and Danse attempt to track down magnets for Liberty Prime, but are met with disaster instead._**

* * *

As their vertibird made the final approach to the _Prydwen_ , Danse stole a glance at the woman he loved. Myra sat on the bench in the passenger bay, her eyes lost to some distant horizon. She had changed into her Brotherhood flight suit, dark jeans covering her lower half but doing nothing to hide the curve of her chest beneath the form-fitting orange fabric. The Paladin had always avoided staring at her body before, but it was harder now not to notice her shapely build, the soft curves of her hips. He wanted to know every inch of her, to immortalize her in his memory as completely as possible. At the same time, he desperately wanted her to start wearing a jacket over her uniform, to tell her that she needed to be more careful. His eyes weren't the only ones that were drawn to her, after all.

Myra turned to look at him, and Danse felt a surge of electricity as their eyes locked. Her smile, that special one she reserved only for him, filled him with comfort that he had never known before. In the end, he supposed, it didn't matter who looked at her. She was his, and he was hers completely. Nothing could change that.

"It's good to be home," Danse said happily. In spite of the incredible time they'd shared at the cabin, he was thrilled to return to the _Prydwen_ . The Paladin wasn't the sort of man who could sit still for long when he knew there were battles to fight, no matter how fantastic a time he was having.

Myra nodded in agreement. "I never thought I'd say this, but it feels good to be getting back to work. I..." her voice trailed off as she looked at the flight deck beyond their dock. "What the hell's going on?" she asked nervously.

There was a frantic energy radiating from the _Prydwen_ as the normally deserted flight deck teemed with activity. A multitude of scribes hustled back and forth, loading medical equipment into two of the docked vertibirds. As he disembarked, Danse overheard snippets of conversation between the busy field scribes. Something about wounded being unloaded from the next transport, about missing knights. The Paladin frowned as he noticed a trail of rust-colored droplets leading into the main deck from one of the loading platforms. Was that blood? He pulled one of the busy scribes aside. "What is going on here?" he asked. "What's happened?"

The Field Scribe looked up at him with wide, frantic eyes. "We're not sure, exactly," the man replied hastily. "There's been an attack on Somerville, one of those settlement farms Proctor Teagan promised protection to. Who or what was responsible is anyone's guess. Everyone we've found so far hasn't exactly been in a position to tell us."

Myra gasped as a stretcher tore past them, a viciously mauled Knight lying still on the bloodstained fabric. The soldier's flight suit had been punctured by something small and sharp, bloody tears spotting the orange fabric. His blue eyes were open wide, unseeing and full of terror. He wheezed loudly, his hands twisted in agony.

"How many casualties were there?" Myra asked, her voice hushed.

The Field Scribe shook his head. "Too many," he replied as he changed his grip on the heavy medical kit he was carrying. "We...we lost the entire settlement. Whoever attacked them burned the farmhouse to the ground with all the settlers inside it. Half the garrison we posted there's still missing. The others, well...Knight Worley over there was one of the lucky ones," he said solemnly, gesturing towards the retreating stretcher. "That's why I really need to get back to work." The Scribe turned away from them, struggling as he carried the bulky field kit to one of the vertibirds.

Myra tried to follow after the Scribe, but Danse grabbed her arm, stopping her. "We need to report in," he said gruffly.

She turned to look at him, desperation in her eyes. "But, Danse, you heard the man! They need help! What if whatever attacked Somerville comes back?"

"I'm certain that Elder Maxson has already sent a large force to deal with operational security," the Paladin replied. "I know you want to do your part, Larimer, but the best thing you can do to assist the Brotherhood is to complete the mission you were assigned."

She sighed heavily, worrying her lower lip between her teeth as her eyes swept over the chaotic assembly. "You're right," she replied finally. "I just...what if Somerville's not the only settlement that got hit? I'm still the General of the Minutemen, aren't I? Do you really expect me to just ignore a threat like this?"

The Paladin nodded. "I do, because those are the terms you're about to agree to when you swear the Oath. You have to learn to adjust the way you interact with the world around you. I'm sorry, but it's the truth. You can't just run off on whatever mission strikes your fancy. Not anymore."

Myra stared up at him, pain and unease in her emerald eyes. "I know what I'm giving up," she said softly. "I just...those people need help, Danse."

Danse smiled sadly down at her. He knew the pain she was feeling all too well. It was easy to follow orders in times of relative peace, but when innocent lives were at risk, that was when being a soldier was often the hardest. There were many times that his heart told him to act on his own, even as his commitment to his duty forced him not to intervene. "I know it seems like you're powerless right now," he soothed. "But you're part of something bigger than yourself. You have to trust that our brothers and sisters assigned to the problem will overcome whatever enemy caused this disaster. I know it seems callous, but we need to do our part and try not to worry about the rest. That's the only way the Brotherhood is able to operate efficiently. We are cogs, not the entire machine. Do you understand?"

Myra closed her eyes, her lips moving in silent prayer. Then she nodded, drawing a shaky breath into herself. "Okay. Yeah. Let's get inside."

The Command Deck was just as busy as the Flight Deck had been, with aides and squires rushing about, carrying messages to each department. Danse had rarely seen so much activity at once. The last time he remembered such frantic preparations was before the battle for Project Purity a decade ago. At once, he found himself back in his younger days, a nervous Knight on his first major mission outside the Citadel. He felt a fluttering in his stomach as the memories flooded him, so real he almost felt like he was back on the devastated streets of the Capital Wasteland, Paladin Kreig screaming to him to keep moving, to stay with his squad. Something more than the loss of a single settlement was underway, that much was clear.

Danse shook his head slightly, bidding the dread in his gut to recede. There would be plenty of time to ask questions later. For now, his only mission was to deliver Myra to the Elder.

Elder Maxson surveyed the Paladin and his charge carefully as they approached him. Danse frowned as he noticed the bags under his old friend's eyes. Clearly, Arthur hadn't been getting much rest. The Paladin felt a surge of guilt as he wondered how many of those sleepless hours had been due to Danse's actions over the last month. He was fully prepared to face the consequences of being absent for so long, but the idea of his friend and leader suffering because of Danse's own choices was one he hated to contemplate.

"It's good to have you home, Danse," the Elder said, saluting the Paladin. "And you as well, Larimer. I'm glad to see you've recovered well. From Danse's report, I was afraid that we were going to lose you."

"You can't get rid of me that easily, Elder," Myra replied with a soft smile.

"So it would seem," Arthur mused, his steely eyes flickering with a gentleness Danse hadn't seen in them since the Elder was a boy. "I hope you've got good news for me, Knight. I could certainly use some."

Myra nodded. "I learned quite a bit from my time inside the Institute," she said. "It's...not exactly what I expected. They're doing so much more than simply manufacturing synths. They're experimenting with all sorts of different things, and not all of it seems to be dangerous, either. On the other hand, they also have a massive lab complex dedicated to studying the FEV virus. From what I was able to read in their records, it seems like most of the Super Mutants in the Commonwealth were manufactured by the Institute."

The Elder's expression darkened. "I've hoped that wasn't the case," he muttered. "But it makes sense. Why stop with one form of defiance against the natural order? There had to be a way for the Institute to use the people they've replaced with synth abominations, after all. Test subjects was an obvious choice. Those scientists are far too frugal to let a resource like human lives go to waste," he said, nearly spitting out his words in contempt. "Are there no levels to which the Institute will not sink?"

"They don't seem to recognize that what they're doing is wrong," Myra continued. "I think that's the worst part. The Institute scientists are convinced that they're doing all this for the betterment of mankind. I honestly don't know if they're just delusional or if they don't consider those of us on the surface to be human any more. Either way, it's bad news."

Maxson sighed. "Nothing in the world is as dangerous as a group of people determined that they're doing the right thing," he muttered. He looked back to Myra, his steel blue eyes intense and troubled. "I wish I could say that I anticipated this outcome," Maxson continued, "but it's worse than I feared. Considering what the Institute's capable of, I'm honestly amazed they let you go. How exactly did you convince them?"

Danse felt terror gnawing at the corner of his mind. Maxson suspected her of treason, didn't he? There was no other reason the Paladin could think of for the Elder to question Myra's escape.

Myra, however, didn't appear unsettled by Arthur's question. She smiled at the Elder slightly, her voice clear and confident. "They've got their heads so firmly up their own asses that they didn't see me as a threat. In fact, I think they've decided to make me something of an ambassador to the surface. The whole time I was there, every department was showing off their accomplishments to me, trying to convince me that they meant no harm, that I'd been lied to about their intentions. It was kind of sad, actually. As if I'd buy into that nonsense after what they did to my family."

Maxson's expression softened. "A shame they underestimated you," he replied almost warmly. "I assure you, I don't intend to make the same mistake. You've proven yourself to be a loyal and valuable member of the Brotherhood, Larimer. Your commitment to our cause won't be forgotten."

"Thank you, sir," Myra replied with a bright smile. "I appreciate your trust in me."

"It's been well-earned," Arthur replied gently.

Danse felt that familiar twinge of something restless and ugly in his chest as he glanced between the two of them. He was grateful that Arthur recognized Myra's worth, but at the same time, he felt uneasy with how quickly the Elder had come to rely on her. Their close relationship bothered him more than he was willing to admit, and he hated himself for feeling this way. He should be thrilled that his closest and most respected friend and the woman he loved got along so easily...but Danse's feelings had never been simple. That was why he'd preferred to keep them locked down until recently. He cleared his throat, trying to ignore his unease. "I understand if we don't have the time to administer it," Danse said, "but Larimer has decided to take the Oath of Fidelity."

Maxson's eyes narrowed, his admiration quickly replaced by concern. "Are you certain this is what you want, Knight?" he asked Myra. "I chose to allow you to work for us without those restrictions, given your pre-existing commitment to the Minutemen. If you take the Oath, you understand that your life would no longer be your own, do you not? Your first and only duty would be to the Brotherhood. If any of your other allies needed your help, you would have to ask for permission before intervening. Are you sure that's something you can live with?"

Myra nodded. "My life's already not my own," she replied. "And I'm tired of being pulled in every direction. I just want things to be simpler."

Arthur sighed heavily. "I can certainly understand that," he said. "But what has changed, Larimer? You're not the type of person who likes following orders. That's something you've made abundantly clear by your actions. Why are you suddenly so willing to throw your independence away?"

Danse nodded. He'd asked her the same question numerous times. The Paladin knew that Myra had it in her to be a phenomenal soldier, that she could very well thrive in the Brotherhood. But until recently, she'd never made any indication that a life pledged to the Brotherhood was one she really wanted. Was she only there because she loved him? Or was there a better reason for her to turn her back on her other allies?

"The Institute has to burn," she replied bitterly, her eyes alight with malice and pain. "What they did to my family...what they've done to the Commonwealth...they have to be destroyed. I see that now. And the Brotherhood of Steel has the means to do it, right?"

"What about your son?" the Elder asked.

Myra looked to Danse, her eyes swimming with tears. The Paladin wanted to pull her close, to drive those tears away as he so often had. Now that he'd begun to let down his walls, it was harder for him to resist. Somehow, he managed.

"My son is dead," Myra said simply, her voice hollow.

Danse frowned. He hated lies, even if they were convenient ones. It was certainly easier to say that Shaun had been killed by the Institute than to explain who Myra's son had become. But the fact remained that Shaun was alive, that Myra was planning on destroying him herself. If she changed her mind, if she let the monster named Father go... but maybe it was for the best that Arthur believed her for now. If the Elder knew who Myra's son was, would he trust her? Would he help her? Danse couldn't know for certain. All he did know was that Myra couldn't afford to raise any more suspicions, not with Proctor Quinlan so close to exposing her as a Railroad agent.

"I'm terribly sorry to hear that," Maxson replied, drawing her attention back to him. "Please accept my deepest condolences."

"I appreciate that, Elder," Myra said bluntly. "But I don't need sympathy. I need action."

"Then action you will receive," Arthur continued, pulling a weathered book from his pocket. "Normally, we'd gather the whole crew for something like this, but given our current crisis, there simply isn't time for an induction ceremony. If you're certain this is what you want, Knight, please place your hand on the Codex." He held the book out to her, and Myra placed her right hand on top of the cover. "Good. Now, swear the Oath as it is written in the Codex."

Myra frowned. "Wait. I had to memorize something?"

Maxson sighed, glancing over at Danse. "You didn't tell her?"

The Paladin paled. It had never occurred to him that Myra hadn't learned the Oath, since the Brotherhood began instructing its Aspirants in the ways of the Codex from their first day on board. But Myra had never been an Aspirant. It was only natural that she hadn't learned what was expected of her. Danse shook his head. "I'm sorry, Arthur."

The Elder nodded. "Very well. There's not much we can do about it now. Danse, you'll just have to help her."

Danse stood next to Myra, leaning close to her ear. "Just repeat what I'm about to tell you," he whispered.

Myra nodded. "Okay. Let's do this." She listened intently as Danse began to tell her the words. " _I, Myra Isolde Larimer, with all true resolve, do swear myself fully and completely to the service of mankind. I vow to uphold the Codex and all the laws contained therein, from this moment forward until I take my final breath. I shall trust in the wisdom of my Elder and swear to follow his every command without question, for he is the one chosen by the Creator to have governance over me. I vow to respect and honor all those bound to me by steel, for their lives are as one with my own. Though I protect those not bound by steel, no longer will I count myself among them, nor share with them the forbidden knowledge the Brotherhood is sworn to keep from them. I am now a true Sister of Steel, a soul reforged to stand as a guardian of those who are weaker than myself. So I shall be until death releases me from my oath._ "

Danse's heart brimmed with pride as he heard those words repeated by those lips he had so recently kissed. While he still worried that Myra was making the right choice for the wrong reasons, he was thrilled at the result. No longer would he have to worry about her loyalty being questioned. No longer would he have to fear that she would be stripped from him. At last, she was completely the Brotherhood's soldier, and he couldn't be more pleased to welcome her as a full sister. Doubts about her motives still hovered in the back of his mind, but they didn't matter any more. In the end, Myra had made her choice.

Elder Maxson nodded, an expression suspiciously akin to a smile playing about his lips. But that couldn't be, could it? Arthur never smiled any more. "I, Elder Arthur Maxson, accept you, Knight Larimer, as a full member of the Brotherhood of Steel," he said with trembling in his commanding voice. "On the blood of my forefather, High Elder Roger Maxson, I grant you all the privileges and responsibilities of your station, from now until your death." The Elder handed Danse a small pin bearing the Brotherhood crest. "If you would, Danse?"

The Paladin nodded, pinning the crest to Myra's uniform. "Congratulations, Knight," he said proudly, smiling down at her.

"Thank you, Paladin," she replied, blushing slightly as his fingers lingered on her collar. "I'll do my best not to embarrass you."

"Good luck with that, Larimer," Arthur said sternly. "Now, as much as I would love to celebrate with you at greater length, Knight, I'm afraid that you're needed back in the field."

Myra nodded. "Do you want us to help with the situation at Somerville?" she asked.

Maxson shook his head. "Given the information we've collected from the scene thus far, I…" He seemed to catch himself, clearing his throat. "The situation at Somerville is under control," the Elder amended. "Proctor Ingram has requested you personally for a mission of utmost importance. You should report to her at the airport as soon as possible."

Myra's easy smile faded. "More important than protecting the Commonwealth?"

The Elder watched her with careful eyes. "Didn't you just vow to follow my orders without question?" he asked.

"Sorry!" Myra exclaimed, shaking her head. "Old habits, and all that. If Proctor Ingram needs me, I'll head to the airport right away. I was going to visit her once we were done here anyway. I have to give her back that holotape, after all."

Maxson's eyes softened. "It really is good to have you back, Larimer. I'm pleased that you've decided to make the right decision and dedicate your life to the Brotherhood. And I know Danse agrees. Look at him. He couldn't be prouder of you if he tried."

Danse blushed, doing his best to hide his embarrassment. Did Arthur know that he and Myra were...involved now? Was it obvious? The Paladin had been trying so hard to be professional. Had he somehow let it slip? "Affirmative," Danse said awkwardly. "I'm pleased you were assigned to my team, Larimer. I hope we can continue to learn a lot from each other."

Arthur sighed, shooting him a resigned look. "Take care of him, Larimer. Danse is a hell of a soldier, but in some ways, he's completely hopeless."

Myra chuckled. "I'll take that under advisement, sir," she replied.

"And I…" Maxson thought for a moment, searching for the right words. "We may not have been able to save your son," he said firmly, "but I swear to you that we will make the Institute pay for all their crimes against humanity. I wish I could offer you a happy reunion, but at least I can promise you vengeance."

Myra nodded. "Vengeance will be more than enough, sir," she said, her eyes growing colder with each word. "Thank you."

"You can thank me when we've destroyed the Institute," the Elder replied. "To that end, you'd better report to Ingram right away. Dismissed." He offered Myra and Danse a salute. "Ad Victoriam!"

"Ad Victoriam!" they echoed, returning the salute before filing out of the Command Deck.

Once they were out of sight, Myra glanced around furtively before planting a kiss on Danse's cheek. "Thanks for being there for me," she murmured, smiling up at him. "I'm glad to have you by my side."

Danse smiled back at her, once more fighting the urge to pull her into an embrace. Just because they were alone for the moment didn't mean that they could throw caution to the wind. There was a saying that there were no secrets in the Brotherhood for a reason. Word traveled faster than lightning on the _Prydwen_ , and he was serious in his commitment to keeping Myra free from extra scrutiny. With this in mind, he settled for a protective hand on her shoulder. "Of course, Larimer. You know full well that I'll never let you out of my sight if I can help it."

Myra yawned. "Man, I wish we had some time to rest before we got back to work."

Danse rolled his eyes. "Of course, because your six weeks of rest and recovery was incredibly exhausting."

She punched his armored arm playfully. "Hey, I was rebuilding bones. What were you doing?"

"Making sure you didn't get yourself killed," he replied. "Business as usual."

"You know, I think I liked you better when you were serious all the time," Myra teased. "But point taken. Shall we get on with it?"

"Affirmative," Danse said, opening the door to the Flight Deck. "Hopefully the shuttle to the airport is still operational and hasn't been re-routed to deal with the crisis in Somerville. Otherwise, we'll have to jump for it, and since I've never bailed out from this altitude before, I can't guarantee a smooth landing."

Myra looked a little bit sick as she thought about it. "Yeah, let's just take a vertibird," she replied. "No offense, but I'm not a huge fan of falling, even if your power armor will protect us. What happens if you drop me?"

"Well, if you'd just wear your own armor," Danse retorted, "then I wouldn't have to carry you every time."

"But I like it when you hold me!" Myra teased, leaning up on her tiptoes to muss his hair.

The Paladin growled indignantly. "You're going to get us caught," he muttered.

"Like anyone's watching," Myra replied with a smirk. "They're all too busy to care. Besides, the danger of being caught makes it so much more fun, don't you think?"

"I think we have vastly different definitions of fun," Danse protested. He didn't mean it, of course. The thrill in his heart every time she touched him was overwhelming, and in his mind he'd already catalogued at least twenty places on the _Prydwen_ where they were likely to be able to steal a few moments of privacy. Now that he'd gotten to spend so much time alone with Myra, he'd gotten spoiled. It was difficult to hear her voice and not imagine it moaning his name, or to see her walking in front of him without wanting to feel her body wrapped up against his once more. His lips felt cold and empty without hers pressed against them, and the thought of going more than a day without her hands in his hair was maddening.

Part of him regretted the decision he'd made back at the cabin to take things slow. He'd wanted to do the opposite and take things further, to give himself completely over to her physically just as he had emotionally, but his better nature had held him back. Danse wasn't exactly the type of man to sleep with a woman in emotional turmoil, no matter how badly he wanted her. Myra needed time to heal, and he was determined to give it to her. Once the Institute was defeated, once she'd properly mourned everything she'd lost...then there would be time for both of them to explore everything they had gained. Danse just had to be patient, no matter how hard it was to wait. Anything less wouldn't be fair to the woman he adored.

The Paladin needed her close to him more than he could have ever predicted, but like hell he was going to let her know that. They both needed to practice some restraint, and while Danse trusted his own will, he knew that Myra wasn't exactly a master of self-control. If he let on how desperately he wanted her, twenty hidden places wouldn't be nearly enough, nor would they be able to wait until their mission was complete. He was doing the right thing. So why did it feel so wrong?

Myra pouted, walking just slightly ahead of him to the vertibird shuttle. She looked behind her, smirking at him before she climbed aboard. Danse swore she was deliberately taking her time with each rung of the ladder, her tight jeans clinging to her every curve.

The Paladin heard a wolf-whistle from the deck behind them, and turned with fire in his eyes to stare down the unfortunate who had picked the wrong Knight to ogle. The catcaller in question quickly turned away, but not before Danse was able to catch a glance at the registration printed on his fatigues. RN-580A. Aspirant Reinhardt. The absolute moron. The Paladin was definitely going to have words with him later. He couldn't entirely fault the young man. Myra wasn't exactly acting like a superior officer, after all. Still, such conduct was unbecoming of a Brotherhood soldier, and Danse was more than willing to add another black mark in Reinhardt's file. He'd known from the start that the younger man wasn't Brotherhood material, and every time he decided to give the poor bastard a chance to prove himself, the Aspirant merely took the opportunity to screw up in new and creative ways. It was a miracle he hadn't brought down the whole Prydwen yet.

Danse climbed into the shuttle after Myra, scowling as he thought about fitting punishments for Reinhardt. Was he a hypocrite for wanting to discipline the Aspirant? After all, the young man may have catcalled Myra, but Danse was the one actively forcing himself not to touch her at every opportunity. Sure, Danse and Myra were in a relationship now, but did that really make things better? The Paladin wasn't sure.

Myra leaned over to him, nudging him with her arm. "Hey, Danse? You okay?"

He nodded. "I'm just thinking, Larimer."

"Well, if you think much harder, your head might explode," she said, concern in her eyes. "You're turning purple. Does Cade need to take a look at you?"

Danse shook his head. "I don't believe that I require medical intervention. Let's just get underway. The sooner we know what our next objective is, the better." At least a new mission would give him something else to think about.

Myra looked like she wanted to say something, but seemed to think better of it. She settled into the seat in the passenger bay with a sigh, and within moments, they were airborne.

* * *

Once the shuttle landed, finding Proctor Ingram proved to be surprisingly easy. She was pacing out on the tarmac beneath a huge gantry, looking over a set of half-destroyed blueprints with a frustrated scowl on her face. More tools than normal had been wedged into the gaps of her power armor frame for safekeeping, and she clanked loudly as she walked back and forth because of the loose pieces of metal.

She did not seem to notice as Danse and Myra approached her, barely looking up from her blueprints. It was only after Myra cleared her throat loudly that the fiery redhead engineer started, her amber eyes wide in alarm. "Oh. It's you two. What's wrong, power armor giving you trouble?"

Myra shook her head. "Elder Maxson said you had a job for us? Oh! And here," she continued, passing Ingram the holotape. "Sorry it took me so long to get this back to you. I was kinda...bedridden for a while."

"So I've heard," the Proctor retorted with a friendly smile. "I'm glad you're feeling better. Thanks for this, Knight. Hopefully Proctor Quinlan will be able to decrypt whatever you grabbed from the mainframe. I'm sure the Institute's thoroughly encoded all their data. I mean, that's what I'd do if I was running a secret organization bent on world domination."

Myra frowned. "I'm not sure world domination's exactly what they're after," she replied. "More like better living through wacky science experiments. But I agree. Whatever I pulled off of the system, I couldn't make heads or tails of when I tried to read it on my Pip-Boy. I hope it's useful. I'll be pissed if I risked my life for some kid's diary or something."

"Hey, even if it's just a supply manifest of the Institute's lunch menu," Ingram joked, "knowledge is knowledge. Speaking of, did you manage to track down Dr. Li? I had a feeling she'd be hard to convince, but I hope you tried, at least."

Danse had completely forgotten about Myra's other mission in the Institute, to locate Dr. Madison Li and reacquire her services for the Brotherhood. Myra had not mentioned the headstrong scientist once since her return, so the Paladin could hardly be blamed for forgetting. He frowned slightly as he remembered the day Dr. Li had left the Brotherhood all those years ago. It had been shortly after Knight Gautier had vanished. Sarah had been made Elder by then, and had asked Dr. Li to help reverse engineer some of the Enclave's more powerful weapons for Brotherhood use. The pacifist scientist had objected to this, or so the official story went. Danse suspected that there were deeper reasons for her departure than ideological differences.

As much as Danse tried to ignore it, there were rifts within the Brotherhood that ran deep, political and ideological tensions that undermined the united front the organization tried to present to the rest of the world. There were many in the Brotherhood of Steel who were loyal to whichever Elder they served under, as was right and proper. But there were others who had sinister intentions, who sought to seize control away from any leader who they determined was weak. The Paladin suspected that these individuals had seen Madison Li as well as many of the other civilian contractors brought in to work on Project Purity as loose ends, as liabilities. After all, they weren't sworn to the Brotherhood, and yet had learned many of the group's secrets. Danse wouldn't have been surprised if Dr. Li had fled for her life, rather than leaving for a mere disagreement with the younger Elder Lyons. In fact, after what had happened to Sarah, perhaps the scientist's fears had been justified.

"You mean she's not here yet?" Myra asked, her eyes wide. "Dr. Li told me she was going to return to the Brotherhood over a month ago!"

"No, I haven't seen her," Ingram replied. "I assumed she'd left with you, if you'd convinced her at all. Damn it!" she exclaimed, kicking at the pavement. "We really need her help, too! I can't make head or tails of these plans."

"Maybe I can help," Myra offered. "I'm not an engineer, but…"

The Proctor sighed. "Well, since you'll be working on the project anyway, I suppose I can let you in on the big secret. An extra set of eyes, no matter how untrained, honestly couldn't hurt right now. Follow me," she continued, leading them into the terminal and down a large concrete hallway lined with metal creates of various hues and sizes. Near the end of the corridor was a large pneumatic door with a keypad next to it. Ingram hastily typed in a code and pressed the large red button at the top of the panel. The door hissed open slowly, revealing a large room. "Welcome to the current resting place of the Brotherhood's secret weapon," the engineer continued, ushering Myra and Danse inside.

Danse gasped in awe at the massive piles of electronics and scrap metal that filled the storage room beyond the door. Some of the piles nearly reached the ceiling, bright bits of wire and scores of nuts and bolts each in their own haphazard stack. It was a miracle that anyone could operate in the room at all, it was so packed with stuff. But what really caught the Paladin's eye was the giant robotic head perched on the centermost workstation, the thin line of its ocular cavity staring blankly ahead. Danse would know that expressionless face anywhere. "Ingram, is that…"

She nodded. "It absolutely is. This storage bay full of parts is all that's left of Liberty Prime. The parts we could find, anyway. I've had to improvise a bit as we've gone along, but I think we're finally making some progress on his reconstruction."

Danse grinned. "Outstanding! If we can get Liberty Prime up and running again, the Brotherhood's campaign against the Institute cannot fail!"

Myra looked between the two of them, confused. "Anyone care to fill me in? What's Liberty Prime?"

Ingram gestured around the repair bay. "Liberty Prime is the most advanced robot the Brotherhood has ever had at its disposal. The Brotherhood used him in the Capital Wasteland as a weapon against the Enclave."

Danse nodded. "Ten years ago, Liberty Prime was destroyed by the Enclave through the use of an orbital strike on its position. We lost a lot of good soldiers in that campaign, but the loss of Liberty Prime was among the most devastating. If we are attempting to bring it back online, I'm more than willing to do whatever is necessary to assist."

Ingram smiled. "I'm glad to hear it, Paladin. Since Elder Maxson has put the two of you under my temporary command, you'll be reporting directly to me for the duration of Prime's reconstruction. Now I know you two enjoy operating on a somewhat slack leash, but I'm afraid that we don't have that luxury with this mission. It's only a matter of time before some Institute spy figures out what we're doing here. We need to get Prime back on his feet before the Institute sabotages our efforts."

"What do you need from us?" Myra asked.

"From what I can glean from these plans, we need high-powered magnets for Prime's actuators," Ingram explained. "We've already sent out a few teams to find what we need, and three of them have already returned with their payloads. However, we haven't heard anything from the fourth team. That's why I asked Maxson to give me you two. We need answers."

Myra frowned. "So you think something's happened to the salvage team. Is that it?"

Ingram nodded. "Each team was given one of the old hospitals to search, and they were supposed to radio in when they arrived at their salvage sites. Beta Team never sent a single transmission, which I can only assume means that they never made it to their objective. We have to find out what happened to them. And, if they were unable to complete their mission, we need the two of you to find the magnet and bring it back. I can't stress how important this mission is. That's why I asked for the best."

"You hear that, Danse?" Myra said with a wide smile. "We're the best!"

Ingram sighed. "Don't act like you didn't know that, Knight. False modesty doesn't become you. After what you two have pulled off, clearing Fort Strong, infiltrating the Institute itself...yeah. You two are basically legends. Might as well get used to it."

Danse sighed. He wasn't exactly excited about the idea of being a living legend. Having to live up to the stories people told about such people was clearly exhausting. It was little wonder that most legends of the wasteland either died young or faded away into obscurity as quickly as possible. Between Sarah Lyons and Heather Gautier, Danse had been friends with both types of legend, and he wasn't certain which camp he'd fall into. No, it was easier just to be a soldier in the service of someone great, rather than being seen as great himself. "Larimer did most of the work," he replied. "I merely kept her alive as best as I was able."

Myra laughed. "Is that what happened? Hmm. I remember things a bit differently. But if that's the role you wanna take, well, that's your business." She turned back to Ingram. "Where was Beta Team headed, exactly?"

"Kendall Hospital. It's up by -"

"Cambridge," Myra finished. "Yeah, I know the place." Her eyes hardened as she struggled to maintain her smile. "We'll find your team, Proctor. One way or another."

"I wouldn't have asked if I thought it was beyond your capabilities," Ingram retorted. "Just try to wrap things up quickly, if you can. I really want to get Prime back on his feet soon."

"You got it!" Myra replied a little too cheerily. "Come on, Danse. We're gonna need a vertibird."

As soon as they were out of earshot, Danse pulled her aside, concerned. "Larimer, what do you know about Kendall Hospital?"

Myra sighed, her emerald eyes troubled. "Well, for one, it's where my hus...where Nate was taken when he came back from the Canadian front," she replied. "But I've been there more recently, I'm afraid. The place is...well, was a Railroad safehouse, up until a few months back. Raiders took it over and massacred everyone inside. I was sent in to find out why the agents there had gone dark. It was...the things they did to those poor people…" she shuddered.

"Do you believe that these raiders took out Beta Team?" Danse asked, concerned. Normally, even a large group of raiders was no match for a Brotherhood strike team.

She shook her head. "Not those raiders, at least. By the time I left Augusta Safehouse, there weren't any of them left to fight. I made certain of that. Those bastards are lucky I'm not sadistic. They deserved way worse than the quick deaths I gave them. They certainly didn't show their victims the same mercy." Myra sighed heavily. "I really never thought I'd have to go back there again," she murmured. "I've got so many memories there, from such different times...but maybe this time I'll be able to face it. After all, I've got you with me, so there's nothing to be afraid of, right?"

The Paladin nodded. "No matter what horrors await us inside those walls," he replied, "I know that we can overcome them together."

"You seem pretty sure of that," Myra said.

Danse smiled gently at her. "What can I say? I feel pretty damn secure when I know you've got my back. I hope that you feel the same."

"Of course I do!" she exclaimed. "But whatever's happening right now, I can't help but worry that we're out of our league. I mean, hell, I've been incredibly lucky so far. There's so many times I've nearly died out here in the Commonwealth. I just can't shake the feeling that my luck can't last forever. What if I...what if something happens, and I lose you?"

"I won't let that happen," Danse replied firmly.

"No offense, Danse, but how can you promise that? You know as well as I do that the Commonwealth's a dangerous place. I thought I understood the risks before, but now that I have you, I…" she trailed off, her lower lip trembling.

Danse sighed, leading her into one of the small storage sheds near the helipad. He'd hoped to avoid this, but Myra was quickly giving in to hysteria, and he felt like he had no choice. There was only one thing he knew that would calm her down when she got like this. He closed the door to the shed, plunging them into darkness. The occlusion lasted but a moment before Myra activated the light on her Pip-Boy, casting them both in an eerie green glow. In an instant, Danse swept her off her feet, kissing her passionately.

He could almost feel the fear leave her body as he drew it out of her like poison from a wound, her nervous energy fading only to be replaced with something even more powerful. She gasped into his mouth as he set her gently on top of a supply crate, bringing her comfortably to his height. For a long while, not a word was spoken between them, their communication restricted to gentle caresses and soft, needy kisses, to hushed gasps and barely-swallowed exultations of joy.

The Paladin wanted to tell her so much, but as was often the case, the words he needed wouldn't come. He wanted to reassure her that he wouldn't let anything bad befall either of them, that no matter how dire the situation he would simply not allow them to fail. He wanted to offer her the promise of a happy future together, to give her something powerful to cling to as a talisman against fear. But in the end, all he had to offer her were stolen moments like this one, a few brief kisses to stem the flow of torment from her troubled mind. He had to pray that those would be enough to keep her going.

If he was being honest, Myra wasn't the only one who needed such a reminder. Danse was utterly terrified of losing her, of failing to protect her from the disaster that would finally tear them apart. He wanted so badly to find her a nice desk job somewhere far from the front lines, to surround her with every ounce of security the Brotherhood could muster. Every mission they embarked on could be their last, and while that had always been the case, somehow now that they were romantically involved, the reality of the danger they faced on a daily basis was palpable to him. Danse did not want to deny her the glory of combat, but part of him was convinced that having her by his side in battle was no longer worth the risk of losing her.

Still, the Paladin knew that Myra wasn't a storm he could control. She was stubborn, foolhardy, and utterly determined to fight her own battles. Whoever she had been before the War, she was not some meek little civilian. If she wanted to be by his side, there was little Danse could do to prevent her. He was going to have to find a way to live with that.

Myra gently brushed his hair from his forehead, kissing his brow sweetly. "You have no idea how much I needed this," she murmured.

"If it was even half as much as I needed it," Danse replied with a slight smile, "then I believe I'm fully aware."

"So, is this gonna just be what we do before missions now?" she teased, hopping off the crate. "Because I can absolutely get behind that."

Danse sighed. "Myra, you know we have to -"

"Be careful," she interrupted. "I know, Danse. And I'm sorry for being so handsy. It's just...I'm scared if I go longer than a few days without touching you like this that I'll wake up and realize that this was all a dream."

The Paladin touched her cheek gently with an armored finger. "I assure you, Myra, this is all very real."

"I...I used to want that, you know?" she continued. "To just wake up in my bed back in Sanctuary Hills, with Nate snoring his handsome head off beside me. But now, I'm not sure that I could go back if that was the case. I've changed too much. I'm not that woman any more. Hell, I'm not sure who I am. I just know that I'm here, right now, with you. And that's enough for me." She placed her hand over his, giving it a firm squeeze. "Thanks. I'm...I wasn't sure I'd ever get those words out."

Danse nodded. "Believe me, I have a difficult time expressing my feelings to you as well. I believe that's why we've found such solace in...less verbal expressions."

Myra chuckled. "Well, that and I really, really like kissing you. But we should get going. I'm sure our Lancer's wondering where we got off to. And we probably need an excuse for why we suddenly needed to come in here."

"That's simple," Danse replied, glancing around. "We had an urgent need for…" he held up a spool. "...ballistic fiber?"

Myra shook her head. "I'm not even sure what that's for. Let's see...how about...aha!" she cried in triumph, a box of screws in her hand. "Yeah. Needed some screws. That's a good excuse."

The Paladin sighed. Had he been dealing with anyone else, he might have assumed that the double entendre had been unintentional. But Myra thrived on crude humor the way others did on food. She had to have known what she was implying.

"What?" she asked, feigning innocence. "I've been meaning to mod out your laser rifle for a while now. After all, you gave me your nice one. It's not fair that I'm the only one with a good weapon."

"Very well," Danse muttered. "In any event, we should make our way to the helipad. If Beta Team's in danger, we certainly don't have any more time to waste."

Myra nodded, casually pulling the storage shed door open and making her way outside, the box of screws carried conspicuously in her hands. Danse followed a few feet behind, glancing around for any indication that they were being watched. Fortunately, it seemed that Myra's prior observation was correct. Everyone seemed far too busy to notice them, even as the vertibird they were in departed for Cambridge. The Paladin sighed in relief once they were airborne. They really had to be more careful. Just because they'd gotten lucky this time didn't mean that such dalliances wouldn't eventually be noticed. All the excuses in the world wouldn't slow down a rumor once it began to circulate.

Still, Danse knew in his gut that this was only the beginning. What he and Myra shared...it was too strong to be controlled for long. In spite of his best intentions, the Paladin knew that it was only a matter of time before his resolve broke down completely. He just hoped that they'd be able to save the Commonwealth before that happened, so that Myra could receive the closure she so desperately needed before he asked her to take that next step with him.

He glanced over at Myra, her face alight with unmitigated joy as she manned the craft's minigun, and he knew without an inkling of doubt in his mind that she was the only one for him. The way her ivory hair blew around her face as the air currents played through it, the whoop of joy she gave as she swung the heavy gun around to take aim at a horde of ferals below them...everything about her filled him with happiness. It was worth the risk. It had to be.

Danse turned his eyes away from her to watch the patchwork spread of the city beneath them, his heart full of beautiful melancholy as he tried once more to imagine what Boston had looked like before the War. The yearning he had for that simpler life had faded somewhat, he realized. When had that happened? Was it simply a loss of interest in the past, or was it perhaps that he'd finally found something better in the present? The Paladin wasn't sure. All he knew was that he was happy, and that was enough.

"What the hell is that?" Myra asked, drawing his attention back to her. She pointed toward the east with wide eyes before training the minigun on whatever had caught her eye, firing wildly.

Danse followed her fire to see what looked like a black cloud moving towards their vertibird at an ominously fast speed. As the shifting darkness drew nearer, he realized with a start that what had seemed to be a cloud was actually a mass of crows, black wings thrumming the sky as they flew en masse directly for the aircraft. The birds dodged Myra's bullets deftly, opening and closing their ranks seamlessly as they drew closer. "Gregson," Danse bellowed, "I hope you have a plan!"

"Shit!" cried the Lancer in reply, veering the craft hard to the right. "Hang on back there! I'm gonna try to evade them."

"Affirmative," Danse barked, trying to keep his footing as the vertibird dipped. The flock followed, cawing furiously as they dove after the aircraft.

The craft jerked wildly, as Gregson tried to outmaneuver the crows and Myra screamed as she lost her grip on the minigun. She struggled to latch on to something, anything, before her body was flung against the back bulkhead with a sickening thump. Danse bellowed her name, clinging to one of the vertibird's safety handles as he tried to avoid a similar fate. Myra's unconscious body slid limply across the deck as the aircraft pitched violently, her arms and legs flopping uselessly as she careened towards the open door.

Danse barely had a second to contemplate his decision before he leapt after her, clutching her limp form to his chest as he plummeted out of the vertibird. He closed his eyes against the rush of wind as they fell to earth, hoping the shocks in his suit would hold. The Paladin had never bailed out at this altitude before, but what choice did he have? Letting Myra fall to her death simply wasn't an option.

The Paladin noted with alarm that they'd bailed out above the Charles River, and did his best to adjust their landing in the limited seconds he had to do so. While he would survive a water landing, the impact and subsequent immersion would more than likely kill Myra. They hit the riverbank with a violent thud that shook the earth, and Danse grunted in pain as he felt the bones in his legs shudder with the impact. Miraculously, his power armor had survived the fall, and the shocks did absorb most of the damage. Even still, he could already tell that his joints were going to be feeling that for weeks to come.

The Paladin watched in horror as most of the flock continued after the vertibird. Several of the crows broke off their assault, diving towards them with malice in their beady eyes. With Myra in his arms, Danse couldn't use his laser rifle. In desperation, he pulled her silenced pistol from its holster at her hip, aiming the small gun at the attacking birds.

His eyes widened as the first shot nearly tore one of the crows in half. For its size, Myra's backup weapon packed a hell of a punch. He'd never seen such a powerful pistol. But there was no time to study the weapon, not with more hostiles incoming. Danse made short work of the birds, grunting in disgust as blood and avian viscera rained down on him.

The remaining crows swarmed the vertibird, and Danse could hear the Lancer's cries of alarm and pain in his earpiece as a black mass seeped into the cockpit, angry caws and croaks overwhelming Gregson's voice. Other crows flung their bony bodies into the rotors as if controlled by a malevolent force, not caring about their own lives in their determination to bring down the aircraft. There was a massive explosion, and the vertibird began to lose altitude, circling erratically and smoking as it plummeted from the sky directly towards their position. Danse ran as fast as he could, clutching Myra to his chest as he did his best to escape the crash site.

The impact of the craft and the subsequent explosion knocked him from his feet, and Danse tucked into a protective ball over Myra, wincing as superheated shrapnel thudded against his armor. He did his best to keep his head protected, but his main concern was shielding her from the blast. Danse roared in pain as tiny bits of sharp, hot metal tore into his exposed flesh, the wounds cauterizing themselves as they occurred. There was a small mercy in that, at least.

Once the hail of shrapnel subsided, Danse struggled to stand, touching his right gauntlet to the back of his head as he tried to assess the damage. He hissed as the cold metal made contact with raw, burned skin, but he knew that, all things considered, he'd gotten lucky. "Looks like your luck's held out after all, Myra," he said, scooping her back into his arms. She didn't respond. Was she still unconscious?

He glanced down at Myra's limp body, his heart pounding in his ears. Her head lolled back against his upper arm uselessly, a small trickle of blood flowing from her left nostril. "Myra?" he asked nervously, shaking her gently but firmly. "Wake up, Myra. Please."

His mind raced as he tried to rouse her. What if she was dead? What if he'd crushed her, or the impact of their fall had snapped her neck? She seemed so small, so fragile in his arms, a broken doll, limp and lifeless. "Myra, come on," he pleaded his voice cracking. "You've got to wake up. We have a mission to finish. Don't you dare give up on me now."

She didn't respond. He touched his cheek to hers, frowning at how cold and clammy her skin was. He tried to slow his breathing, tried to think through this rationally, but his fear overwhelmed his reason. Danse's eyes welled with tears as he cradled her in his arms. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Their journey together had just started. He couldn't lose her now. Not with so much left undone. "Myra, you can't do this," he growled.

"Could you...ugh...could you calm down?" Myra's voice wheezed as she struggled weakly in his embrace. "I'm...alive, you idiot. At least I think I am. Hurts...too much for me to be dead."

Danse stared down at her in disbelief, his eyes wide as he took in her pained smile, her bloodshot, unfocused eyes. "Thank god," he murmured. "I...I thought I'd lost you."

"If the way I feel's any indication," she rasped, groaning, "I'd say you almost did. Let's not do that again. Ever. If I have to have a headache like this, I sure as hell want to earn it." Myra reached up weakly, touching the back of her head. She whimpered in pain as her fingers found a sore spot. "Damn. I think I have a concussion."

"You're lucky if that's all you have!" Danse exclaimed. "Do you have any idea what I just endured?"

Myra glanced around slowly, trying to focus. "I...well, we're on the ground. That's new. What happened?"

"You fell out of the vertibird," Danse said simply. "If I hadn't…" he sighed. "You really ought to start wearing your power armor."

Myra sighed. "Fine. You win. From now on, if we're taking a vertibird, I'll suit up."

Danse breathed a sigh of relief. At least he wouldn't have to worry about her falling to her death any more. "After we landed," he continued, "those birds...whatever they were...they crashed the vertibird. Gregson's undoubtedly dead. It looks like we'll have to walk from here." He frowned down at her. "Can you walk?"

"I'm not sure," she replied. "Sort of hard to test that out with you holding me so tight."

Danse released his grip on her, easing her to her feet. Myra took a few slow, tentative steps, wobbling more than the Paladin was comfortable with. She looked up at him with an apologetic smile. "Good news is my legs work. Bad news is that I'm not sure my balance is...whoa!" she cried, toppling against him. Danse held her upright with a frown.

"We should look for a place to bivouac nearby," the Paladin urged. "I'm not convinced that you should be going anywhere until we take a closer look at your injuries."

Myra nodded. "I'm just gonna...yeah, I'll wait here," she murmured, easing herself to the ground.

Danse shook his head, lifting her back into his arms. "Don't even consider falling asleep, Myra," he warned. "If you do have a concussion, that's the absolute worst decision you could make. You're coming with me so that I can keep an eye on you."

She protested sleepily, but settled into his arms all the same. "Fine. But if anyone asks, I walked the whole way on my own."

Danse was about to answer her when his thoughts were interrupted by an angry cry from the ruins nearby. "Brotherhood soldiers!" the voice proclaimed. "We have you surrounded. Surrender now, and we'll allow you to live. Discard your weapons immediately."

The Paladin sighed. Great. An ambush. Just what they needed today. "I refuse," he replied. "Show yourselves, and face me like men."

The voice laughed harshly. "You're in no position to negotiate here. Your companion can't even walk on her own, let alone shoot a gun. Are you really prepared to let her die? I promise, if you surrender peacefully, we will tend to your wounds. We have no desire to fight you as long as you leave our territory once you're healed. But if you give us no other choice, we will defend ourselves." A blue laser blast streaked across the sky, emphasizing the speaker's point.

Danse frowned as he contemplated his options. Brotherhood soldiers didn't surrender. But at the same time, with Myra hurt...his heart twisted painfully as he thought about her dying in front of him. He'd already almost lost her once today. Was he prepared to lose her again? He hissed in frustration as he tossed Myra's pistol to the ground.

"Danse, what are you doing?" Myra protested as he removed his laser rifle and tossed it next to the pistol.

"I won't risk losing you," he replied bitterly. "No matter what, I promised that I'd keep you safe, and that's a promise I intend to keep, no matter the consequences."

"A wise choice," the voice replied. A few figures emerged from the ruins, their faces obscured by strange masks. Two of these strangers picked up their weapons and equipment, carrying them back into the building from whence they had emerged. Another carefully tied a blindfold around Danse's head, obscuring his vision. "Do not resist," the speaker continued. "We mean you no harm so long as you bring no harm to us. Your weapons will be returned to you once you are out of our territory."

Danse did as the voice requested, even as he hated every minute of it. Whatever they were getting themselves into, he had to believe that it was better than the alternative. "I'm sorry," he murmured, though he wasn't sure who the sentiment was directed at. Arthur? Myra? Himself? It didn't matter. His choice had been made, and as hands grasped his arms, leading him forward, Danse went along meekly, a bitter taste in the back of his throat and the crushing feeling of wretched defeat flooding his veins.

* * *

**_A/N: Turns out that just admitting your feelings for someone doesn't automatically make everything okay. Being in love definitely has its own set of challenges. Even someone as committed to his principles as Danse isn't immune from the fear of losing his loved ones, and that fear can sometimes be more powerful than any sense of duty. Here's hoping he doesn't come to regret this decision._**

**_I know there's a lot to unpack in this chapter, but I hope it's coherent enough. I'm still really worn out from my trip and I'm afraid it's effecting my writing._**

**_NEXT CHAPTER: MacCready arrives at the airport, looking for Myra. What he finds instead is Brotherhood nonsense._**


	13. The Cover of Darkness

**13\. The Cover of Darkness**

**_MacCready does some soul-searching and some Myra-searching. Neither journey takes him exactly where he expected._**

* * *

The night rested over the broken skyscrapers of downtown Boston, a sea of rich indigo filled with silvery stars that decked the shattered spires like Christmas lights. On another night, perhaps, with the right person to view it with, MacCready might have called the scene beautiful. As it was, he was grateful for the cover of darkness as it allowed him a modicum of safety from the band of raiders laughing and taunting each other in the firelight below the sniper's rooftop perch.

MacCready wasn't in any condition to deal with existence at that moment, let alone to pick a fight with a pack of brain-dead ruffians, so the fact that the raiders hadn't yet realized there was someone else crashing their party was a rare bit of luck. The sniper scoffed quietly to himself, pulling a bottle of rye whiskey from his pack. Crazy that he used to see himself as lucky. Seemed like years since the last time he'd gotten anything good from the world around him. These days, there wasn't a damn thing he'd valued that hadn't been taken away from him. What was the point?

He took a swig from the nearly full bottle, hissing as the barrel-aged rye bit at the tender parts of his gums and sent a warm burn down the back of his throat. Well, at least there was still an abundance of pre-War alcohol left in the Commonwealth. That wasn't lucky, but it was close enough for a night like this.

He tipped a shot's worth of the amber liquid onto the roof next to him, sighing heavily. "We never did get that drink, did we, Dov?" he murmured. "Sorry, pal." His hand trembled as he took another swig from the bottle, trying to dull the guilt that tore into him like a rusty blade.

For weeks, MacCready had been running from what had happened at Med-Tek, had been haunted with every step by the young shopkeeper's final horrifying moments. What little sleep he managed to get was filled with images of Dov's tormented face as the feral ghouls dragged him deeper into the medical research facility. MacCready was damn tired of people dying because of something he'd done...or something he himself had failed to do. There had to have been a way to save Dov, some plan that the sniper had been too terrified to come up with. At the very least, he should have shot the younger man, spared him the agony of being ripped apart by the mindless horde. But like always, MacCready had failed to act when someone he cared about needed him. And like always, the weight of loss was too heavy for him to bear sober.

Lucy, sweet, patient, too-good-for-him Lucy, had lost her life because the sniper had taken their family's safety for granted. Dov, a young man who'd put his absolute faith in MacCready, who'd offered him nothing but compassion...they'd both died screaming, trying to help the sniper save his son. And now, because of his incompetence, because of his stupid fucking failures, even Duncan was going to die. It had all been for nothing.

An old, familiar thought haunted MacCready's mind as he sat on the roof of the _Boston Bugle_ building, his back against an old air conditioner unit: maybe it would have been better if he and Duncan had never made it out of the metro, had died alongside Lucy in the musty dark tunnels under the Capital Wasteland. Then MacCready would have never had to face a world without her. Duncan would have never gotten sick, would have never known how cruel and changeable the world could be. More than that, Dov Stern would never have met MacCready. The young man might still be alive somewhere out in the Commonwealth, blissfully unaware of the fate he'd avoided.

"Or, you know, he and Zev'd be dead outside that old folk's home in Lexington," the sniper slurred to himself with a bitter scoff. It wasn't an unlikely conclusion. After all, the twins had been beaten half-to-death before Preston had arrived on the scene, and without MacCready backing the Colonel up, it was reasonable to assume that the Stern's rescue would have failed.

Still, it was impossible to say for certain what would have happened had MacCready not been there. Maybe Dov was just supposed to die, and MacCready had merely managed to buy him a few extra months of life. Or maybe through some twist of fate, if the sniper had never come to the Commonwealth, some other change in their story might have occurred, and Dov would live to be an old man. The past was a distant country no man could ever truly master, and just thinking about it made MacCready's head hurt. He took another drink, trying to calm his mind.

He thought of everything that had happened to him over the last few months, the events that had played out in the time since he'd taken Myra's contract. Who knew that meeting a woman like her would change so much of his life so quickly? He remembered the way she'd looked as she leaned up against the doorframe of the _Third Rail_'s VIP lounge, looking for something he wasn't certain she could even identify. It all played through his mind so vividly, her charming smile, way she'd interrupted Winlock's tirade. She'd sized the Gunner commander up with a glance and shut him down with a sentence.

Myra's movements had been slow, methodical, the easy lope of a woman who knew trouble a mile away and was ravenous for another taste. In his line of work, MacCready had met many dangerous women. Hell, he found most of them boring these days, just more manipulators trying to cling to one higher rung on the ladder of survival like every other asshole in this wasteland of desperation. At first, he'd simply rolled his eyes at her, had told her that caps spoke louder than anything else she was offering, so she could drop the act and stay out of his business.

It was when their eyes met that he felt a change in the wind. While her tipsy, flirtatious smile was the same one he'd seen painted on faces from Diamond City to Megaton, her eyes...damn, she'd had him on her side right from the start with those glistening greens. There was no guile or malice in her eyes, no residue of dreams long-since decayed that covered the gaze of most people he'd known like a thick, hazy film. Instead, there was a deep sadness that spoke to the mercenary's soul, the pain they shared as spouses left behind. But more than that, he'd seen her determination, her fierce desire to change the world she found herself in. And that was why he found himself offering to buy her a drink… why he found himself hours later agreeing to work for her.

Even after she'd abandoned him to follow after Danse, had sent him to Preston as an errand boy, MacCready had believed in Myra. He heard the stories of her triumphs from the settlers she had saved. He saw the small acts of kindness she performed for those she called friends, and even for near-strangers. And then, when MacCready's world had been turned upside down by the vengeful Lori, she'd thrown everything aside to rescue him. She'd called him her friend, and just looking in her eyes, he knew she'd meant it. Myra was...hell, she just was. Before MacCready had realized it, he'd come to trust her, had come to depend on her.

So where had she gone? Why hadn't she come to Starlight, after she'd given MacCready her word? Or if she'd been unable to make their meeting, why hadn't she sent him a message? That would have been enough. But Myra hadn't been there. And Dov had paid the price.

The sound of merrymaking below his sniper's nest swelled, and the noise started rubbing MacCready the wrong way. The raiders below traded stories of settlers ravaged and caps scored, their boisterous laughter and gruff voices like a cacophony of radgull cries in the warm late spring air. What business did they have, being so happy? These men and women made their living off of the misery of other people, taking what they wanted with no regard for anyone other than their own filthy desires. Nothing they had they had earned, and all of it had been paid for by the blood of others. It sickened him.

Maybe MacCready was a hypocrite. After all, he'd spent most of his adult life shooting people for a living. Hell, he was sometimes barely one step above turning raider himself. But as he marinated in cheap whiskey and self-pity, the sniper found himself sick of the same old stories of misery and pain. Too many good people had lost everything because of raider scum like the band below him. It wasn't right. And while MacCready had certainly ruined his share of lives, he could barely hold back the drunken anger that coursed through his veins as he thought about the revelers below. Something had to be done, and he was tired of hiding like a coward, waiting for those assholes to fall asleep so he could take his leave.

The sniper tossed the empty whiskey bottle off the roof, smiling grimly as the glass shattered loudly against the pavement below. Sure enough, the noise attracted the attention of the raiders, drawing several of the stupid bastards out to play.

"What the fuck was that?" a concerned, gruff, feminine voice cried.

"Go check it out," a man responded.

"Hell no!" she replied. "You go check it out!"

MacCready sighed heavily as the gang members continued to bicker. He wished they'd just get on with it already, before he sobered up and realized what a complete moron he was being. The sniper wobbled to the edge of the building, resting his rifle on the edge of a half-obliterated piece of decorative facade. He stared blearily through his scope, trying to find his quarry. The booze wasn't washing away his sins, not this time. He needed a distraction, and the Commonwealth could always stand to lose a few more raiders. It was a clear win for everyone.

The pair of raiders slowly crept up the scaffolding a floor beneath him, looking around suspiciously with Jet-addled eyes. A narrow, rail-less catwalk ran the length of what had been the newspaper office's balcony, and to MacCready's delight, the raiders seemed to be heading right for it. He grinned, his scope trained on the male. Just a matter of patience, of breathing, of gently...

His first shot went wide, and MacCready cursed under his breath as he reloaded and readjusted. Damn. They were fast-moving targets, now, and even sober that presented a greater challenge. With how hard it was for MacCready to keep himself steady these days...Yes! The second shot was true, even if his aim as still not quite where he wanted it. The male raider screamed in horror as he was thrown back off the catwalk, a plume of blood following the sickening dive to his doom.

"Fuck!" screamed the woman, the shot and her cries drawing the attention of the rest of the raiders. MacCready counted at least a dozen armed bandits in the vicinity, their snarling ranks converging on the building that sheltered him. Damn. He'd really underestimated how many of them there were. Quickly, he dug in his pack, extracting what remained of his frag grenades. Most of them had been lost with Dov, but MacCready was more than proficient in making mayhem with just a few of the explosives. He tossed one onto the broken concrete between a group of adversaries, watching with satisfaction as four raiders were tossed like ragdolls into the air, limbs blown off like seeds from a crimson dandelion. MacCready pulled himself to his feet, grabbing the axe Myra had given him in his good hand and another grenade in the other.

"Who wants to go first?" He bellowed drunkenly, swinging the heavy axe about like a madman. It was a double-handed weapon, but MacCready was frankly too drunk to care about things like balance and precision. What mattered now was letting the raiders know that he wasn't here to mess around.

From the wide eyes the encroaching bandits focused on him, it was clear that they got the message. "Holy shit," gasped one of the raiders, a lanky man with a red bandana covering his lower face. He and several of the others backed off, fleeing into the night. However, most of the raiders were undeterred by MacCready's alcohol-induced display and charged the roof, snarling as they swarmed the sniper's position.

MacCready hurled the second grenade, narrowly missing one of the raiders. The imposing man smirked at the sniper, his one good tooth hanging on for dear life like a single tombstone in a field of rotten meat. "Nice toss, asshole," the man taunted, brandishing a pipe rifle. "Can't wait to count out your caps!"

There was a small explosion, and the man's look of triumph quickly changed to one of abject terror as the catwalk gave way beneath him. He screamed as he fell, trying to catch himself with fat, grasping hands. Several of the metal rods from the crumbling scaffold pierced his torso, and the raider gurgled in disbelief as his blubberous body slid down the bars that impaled him, leaving a smear of blood and grease behind on the poles. MacCready's stomach heaved at the sight, but he hardly had time to contemplate the dying man before two other raiders were upon him.

MacCready gripped his axe, bringing it down on the head of the shorter of his assailants. The woman's skull split cleanly down the middle, and he struggled to pull the axe free with wide eyes. "Guess this thing's sharper than I thought!" he slurred, grey and red painting the rooftop as he swung the gory weapon once more. This time, the raiders seemed to decide that their lives were worth more to them than one inebriated lunatic with a war axe, and they broke off their attack, scattering to the winds.

"And stay gone!" MacCready barked, falling to his knees on the gore-soaked roof. He gasped and heaved, trying to regain his composure as the adrenaline wore off. He...damn, he hadn't known how much rage had consumed him. Frankly, it scared the shit out of him. For a long while, he didn't move, just gasped for air, for meaning, for anything as the blood soaked into his clothes, staining the uniform he'd worn for years.

He found it worrisome how liberating the whole experience felt. It wasn't just the thrill of survival that overpowered his system. It was deeper than that, a satisfaction that he could hardly begin to explain. He hadn't enjoyed the killing. Though MacCready was certainly talented at the art of murder, he never really enjoyed taking lives, seeing it as a grisly necessity rather than something to be relished. No, this was something else, a satisfaction similar to what he'd felt at seeing Starlight grow into a thriving settlement, or watching the Minutemen repair the Castle. It was like the Commonwealth was broken, and though he'd only repaired a tiny crack in the wall, things were still better now than they had been. Part of the problem had been solved.

The strange feeling that coursed through him wasn't enough to make him forget about Dov. The guilt MacCready carried for younger man's death wouldn't be cast away so easily. But in an unusual way, the sniper felt like his late companion would have approved of his actions tonight. And maybe that was enough.

MacCready climbed slowly down off the roof, his clumsy feet guiding him south. There was no point in staying there. He was out of booze, and his camp was completely trashed. What's more, he was tired of running away from what had happened at Med-Tek. He needed to regroup, needed to find Myra. No matter what had caused her to miss their rendezvous, she owed him an explanation. And more than that, MacCready wanted to make sure that she was okay.

Angry as the sniper was for being neglected, he knew that he owed Myra his life several times over. She'd saved him from Winlock and Barnes. She'd brought him back from the edge of death after Lori...she might not have always been there for him, but damn if she was good at being there when it counted. Med-Tek was an anomaly. That was what bothered him so much about it. There had to be a reason why she'd failed him, why the time he needed her the most, she'd let him down. MacCready just hoped that she wasn't lying dead somewhere.

The bright, garish glare of neon flooded his blurred vision, and MacCready looked up to find that his lumbering steps had brought him to a familiar town. Maybe this had been where he'd been heading all along, back to where he and Myra had met...back to the beginning of the events that had led him on this lonesome road.

The sniper chuckled bitterly to himself. "Goodneighbor. Why the hell not?" Hancock probably had some idea of what had happened to Myra. And even if he didn't have any leads, Goodneighbor was full of cheap booze and cheaper lodgings. Exactly what MacCready needed at the moment. He swung the town's gate open by slumping against it, hauling himself off towards the _Third Rail_.

* * *

A smell of old perfume and musty cloth brought the sniper back to consciousness. MacCready groaned, clutching his head. He felt like he'd drank an entire distillery last night and then spent the remainder of the evening packed in salt. Everything hurt, from his head to his swollen ankle. What the hell happened?

Bits and pieces came back to him as he looked around the dingy room he'd woken up in. He'd been on his way...somewhere, had decided to grab another drink at the Third Rail . Then he'd met...somebody. But what had happened then?

The room's walls were cracked and filthy, red plaster crumbling away to reveal ancient drywall underneath. Besides the mattress MacCready had woken up on, there were a couple couches, a desk, and...was that one of those memory loungers Myra had used? Was he in the _Memory Den_? He couldn't remember ever seeing this room before. The sniper certainly would have remembered it if he had. Whoever's place this was, they loved comics almost as much as MacCready did. Hubris Comics posters littered the cracked walls, and an entire bookshelf full of _Unstoppables_ memorabilia threatened to topple over at any minute under the weight of the collection. Was this some sort of museum?

Papers were scattered everywhere, as well as the better part of a six-pack someone had consumed. MacCready caught the taste of sour malt on the back of his throat. Ah. Right. That'd been him. The sniper picked up one of the papers, frowning at the drunken scrawl. There was some sort of outfit sketched in charcoal by a practiced hand, certainly not his own. It was a long dark, sleeveless duster similar to the tan one he currently wore, yet reminiscent of the Silver Shroud's iconic trenchcoat as well. On another page, MacCready saw what appeared to be a lighter, more streamlined version of his arm brace, though it was hard to make out the details in the dingy half-light.

"What the hell was drunk me thinking?" MacCready mumbled. He gathered up the papers, tossing them in a large battered bucket that rested in the corner of the room. With a flick of his lighter, he set the whole mess on fire. No one could know about this. He'd worked diligently to avoid any of his contacts knowing how much he loved superheroes. If anyone saw these sketches, if they were able to connect them to the sniper somehow...

As the pages caught, he suddenly thought better of it, fishing the costume diagram from the pyre and shaking the flame from the edge. The whole masked hero thing was a terrible idea, but now that he thought about it, he could use a new coat. And that cut, in a black leather? It could be a good look. He tucked the now-cool page in his pack before fishing out a small pot, a can of water, and some razorgrain. There was only one cure for a hangover this intense, and that was porridge. Hopefully the owner of the room wouldn't begrudge him a little breakfast.

MacCready added some broken planks from a pile of debris in the corner of the room to his fire, carefully arranging the aged wood. In a few minutes, he had a good little blaze going, and the water and sprouted grain was already beginning to steam and bubble. While the porridge cooked, he sorted through his pack, trying to make sure he still had all his valuables. That was the trouble with blackout escapades. It was all too easy to misplace important things while under the thrall of whatever captured his fancy during those times of no inhibitions.

Fortunately, as far as the sniper could tell, his drunken self had actually been somewhat responsible for once. Nothing was missing. In fact, he'd acquired a few new items. He frowned, looking over his new collection. A bunch of calling cards, very authentic. A silvery scarf similar to the one he wore. And...

"What the…?" he murmured, turning over a small envelope. There was no markings on it, save for his name neatly printed in pencil along the fold. He opened it carefully, his eyes widening as the contents revealed themselves.

_Mr. MacCready,_

_That was some sweet justice you pulled off last night! Wayne never saw the Silver Shroud coming! It really looks like I chose the right person for the job. Thanks again for agreeing to help me. In your capable hands, I feel like the streets of Goodneighbor are safer already. The upgrades to your costume that we discussed should be ready in a couple weeks. I had Daisy put in a rush order for me._

_I'll be in touch over the radio when it's time for the next step. Hope you slept well. Feel free to use anything you want, as long as you DON'T TOUCH MY BOOKSHELF._

_-Kent_

Well, something had happened last night. That much was clear. But what exactly had MacCready agreed to? Had he drunkenly taken up the mantle of one of his boyhood heroes? Certainly wouldn't have been the first time he'd used a vigilante alter-ego, but it had been quite a few years since "Mayor-Boy, Scourge of Mungos" had been a thing. And that had mostly been to entertain some of the smaller kids back at Little Lamplight, to calm their fears at night. This? This was something else. If Kent's note was to be believed...

Before MacCready could make any more sense of what little he'd uncovered, he heard a cry of alarm from the hallway. Irma, the proprietress of the _Memory Den_ , charged into the room, a fire extinguisher clutched feverishly in her thin hands. "What is the meaning of this?" she exclaimed, her eyes wide as she looked from MacCready, to the fire, and then back. "You're going to burn the place down!"

"Hey, relax," he soothed. "I've got it all under control. Look. The fire's contained. Nothing to worry about."

Irma huffed. "Nothing to worry about? I just have to talk to Kent about the company he keeps. That Myra was bad enough, dragging all that childish junk in here for him. Now you're having a barbeque with my crown molding! Put it out before I put you out, MacCready."

"Fine, fine," he muttered, pouring a carton of dirty water over the flames and subduing them. "My breakfast's done anyway. And would you mind not shouting so loud?"

She rolled her eyes. "You're lucky my dear Nicky's vouched for you, MacCready. You and Ms. Larimer." Irma sighed. "I suppose you won't be a paying customer this time either?"

MacCready nodded, remembering the last time he'd been in the Memory Den . How long had he sat on that awful lumpy futon in the basement, watching Myra twitch and whimper as she lay inside a memory lounger? He'd never asked her what it was like, walking through the memories of a psychopath. The sniper knew he wouldn't like the answer, no matter what it was. But he'd been afraid for her, and for Nick. He never wanted to go through something like that again. "No offense, Irma, but I have a hard enough time with the junk I want to remember," he replied softly. "Nothing good ever came from looking back."

She smiled gently, smoothing the black feathers that fringed the collar of her dress. "Hmm. Then why do your eyes seem so full of the past, dear? Seems to me like all you do is look back." He stared up at her, and her smile grew. "Ah! Sorry. I'm used to handling my clients. If you don't want to tell me your deepest secrets, dear, you don't have to. Just..." she shrugged. "Just don't lie to yourself. I've never seen that end well." With that, she turned and left the room, a faint sway in her hips as she rounded the corner.

The sniper sat on one of the weathered couches, frowning to himself as he ate his bland breakfast. It had been a long time since he'd gotten this blackout drunk. Even after Lori, he'd managed to remember all of his shenanigans the next day. It unnerved him to know that there was a whole stretch of time he'd never remember, that anything could have happened to him and he'd be none the wiser. Maybe Danse had been right after all when the Paladin had admonished him. There had to be a better way to cope with his pain than staring down the wrong end of a bottle. If he didn't get control of himself, and soon...

MacCready sighed as he remembered the months after Lucy's death, how many times he'd woken up just like this, dehydrated and confused in some dreadful and unfamiliar place. He remembered the disappointment and awful pity in Heather's eyes as he stumbled in, the cloud of unfamiliarity in Duncan's eyes as the boy remembered him less and less every time he came home. In a lot of ways, Heather and her obnoxious husband were Duncan's family now, more than MacCready could ever hope to be. How many days had they been there for the sniper's son when he was too distraught, too broken to even look at the boy? It pained MacCready to admit that he'd never been the father that Lucy would have wanted him to be. And now, he might never have the chance to make things right, to give Duncan the love and protection that he deserved. Instead of facing that fear, instead of moving the heavens themselves to save his son, MacCready had run away from his pain yet again. Duncan deserved better. And damn it, he was going to receive better, even if MacCready had to lose everything else in the process.

The sniper gently rinsed out his pot before returning it to his pack. He took one more look at Kent's sketches, shaking his head in resignation. Whatever he'd agreed to, it wasn't important right now. Finding Myra was. MacCready was still convinced that she was the best person to help him save Duncan, and running away from that chance was the worst thing he could do. If Myra wouldn't come to him, if something had prevented her from fulfilling her promise, than damn it, MacCready was going to come to her. He was out of options, otherwise.

Hopefully someone knew where she was. And here in Goodneighbor, everyone knew something.

* * *

The next day found MacCready just beyond the fences that surrounded the Boston Airport. He whistled in awe as he looked over the Brotherhood of Steel's fortifications around the site. Those armored assholes weren't messing around, that was for sure. All around the terminal and the nearby warehouse district, a massive concrete wall had been constructed, razor-wire and searchlights topping the battlements. Knights in heavy power armor patrolled every entrance to the facility, gargantuan miniguns primed and ready for the first sign of trouble. The Citadel itself would have hardly rivaled these defenses, the sniper realized. Whatever the Brotherhood was up to in their little fort, Maxson wasn't taking any chances.

This seemed to also apply to visitors. MacCready had barely come within eyesight of the gate before being waved off by a particularly gruff-looking soldier. He'd tried to protest that he knew the Elder, that he was Knight Larimer's friend, but the guards were having none of it.

"No civilians are allowed inside the Airport without express permission from the Elder!" the guard proclaimed. "Now beat it, unless you want to be target practice."

"Good to see all those etiquette classes are paying off!" MacCready retorted over his shoulder as he walked away. Assholes. The lot of them. And Myra wondered why he had a problem with the Brotherhood.

Many people argued that the Brotherhood had gotten worse under Maxson. Frankly, MacCready hadn't much cared for them when Lyons was in charge, either. Sure, the average soldier had been a bit nicer back then, but the Brotherhood had always just loved telling everyone else what they could do and where they could go. That never sit quite right with the sniper. For all their talk about Old-World values, the Brotherhood of Steel wasn't real big on the idea of freedom. They saw individual freedom as a liability, more than a strength. After all, free thinkers had the potential to destroy the world with their inventions. Anything that couldn't be controlled or regulated was too dangerous to be allowed.

MacCready, on the other hand, had always believed that freedom had a way of balancing itself out. For every mad scientist or roving gang, there was a guy like him that someone was willing to pay to put them down. Justice had a way of being dealt no matter how lawless the world was. And telling people what they could and couldn't do was just asking for crap like the Institute. If scientists weren't allowed to work in the sun, they'd create worse horrors in the shadows. Why couldn't the Brotherhood understand that?

But their stupid codex, much like the airport defenses, was clear and left no room for deviation. All the same, MacCready had learned a long time ago that no wall, no matter how well-guarded, was impenetrable. It just took some creative thinking and a little know-how to breach the defenses. Of course, MacCready had an advantage in that department, at least as far as the physical barriers were concerned. It was incredible to him how rarely people thought about what lay beneath them. In this case, what lay beneath was a massive underground complex of tunnels that had once allowed passengers to cross from terminal to terminal. All the sniper needed to do was find an entrance.

It took him a few hours of scouring the nearby ruins before MacCready found what he was looking for. One of the abandoned warehouses had belonged to SkyChefs, the airline catering company. While all the valuable food and salvage had been removed from the structure, the service entrance to the terminal remained. From the amount of rubble that still blocked the door, it was clear that the Brotherhood hadn't discovered this passage yet. It was exactly the lucky break MacCready needed. He groaned in effort as he pulled large chunks of broken concrete and twisted rebar from the doorway. Myra had better be inside, that was a fact. No way he was going through all this crap for nothing.

The tunnel itself was dark and musty, the florescent lights that had once illuminated it having burnt out long ago. MacCready pulled his lighter from his pack, flicking the flame to life. It wasn't much better, but it was still better than nothing. He took a few tentative steps forward into the darkness, training the flickering light in all directions as he walked. The door sung shut with an ear-shattering clang, nearly startling him from his skin, and the sniper yelped. He froze, listening carefully for any indication that he'd been overheard. Thankfully, only silence met him. He tried the door, but something had fallen back over it. Unless he was able to find another exit, he was trapped.

Without a map to the facility, progress was slow and frustrating. Every tiny sound echoed in the eerily quiet space, and MacCready found himself constantly pausing, listening for signs of danger. The deeper he got into the base, the more foul the air was, and before long, he was choking on the fumes from decayed and molding furnishings, from long-dead travelers, and from many other noxious sources he could not identify. This part of the terminal had been sealed for a long time, probably since the great War itself, and whatever ventilation the facility had once had no longer operated. The sniper poured some of his water over the extra scarf in his bag, winding it around his nose and mouth. It wasn't much, but the cloth would filter out some of the worst corruption. At least it would buy him time to find another way out.

The narrow tunnel gave way to a large lounge and waiting room, and MacCready sighed as he looked around at all the chairs that still sat in cramped rows throughout the area. Many of the seats were still occupied, an army of desiccated travelers still waiting for boarding to begin, luggage handles gripped in skeletal hands that could never relax. How had people lived like this, all crammed together? Even in Little Lamplight, there had always been plenty of space for everyone...though now that he thought about it, MacCready realized that had more to do with how small the average child was than how large the caverns had really been. One good thing about nuclear annihilation was that there were way fewer people to worry about. You could fit an entire city in a waiting area like this, these days.

The sniper knelt beside an open suitcase, looking through the luggage for anything of value. No sense in leaving something he could sell behind to molder in the darkness. As he rifled through threadbare shirts and cracked bottles of miniature booze, however, he felt the hairs perk up on the back of his neck. MacCready barely had a chance to look behind him before a oozing, rotten hand grabbed his arm, yanking him off balance. He cried in horror as his lighter flew from his grasp, skittering uselessly across the floor and plunging him into total darkness. The ghoul pulled at his skin, snarling and biting.

"Damn it!" the sniper hissed, groping in the dark for a weapon. He pulled one of his hunting knives free from its holster on his waist, stabbing furiously at the air in the general location of the horrible monster's face. After a few moments of futile slashing, he made contact with flesh. Hot, stinking, viscous fluid flooded from the wound, and the ghoul wailed in agony as he stabbed again. It flailed pitifully, crying and snarling as it collapsed beside him. It was too dark to see for certain, but from the rush of liquid and the creature's reaction, MacCready was pretty sure he'd caught the feral in the eye. He scrambled to his feet, kicking at the ghoul until its wails turned to sighs, then grunts, then silence.

"Well, great," he muttered, flinging goo from his fingers. "Now what?" His lighter had gone out when it fell, and he had no way of knowing how far away it had slid. There were too many obstacles in the darkness for him to wander aimlessly without risking injury. And what was worse, his mind was growing fuzzy from the fumes. "Perfect," he muttered. "I always wanted to die in a mass grave underneath the Brotherhood of Steel's boots. Guess that's no longer a pipe dream."

He shook his head, trying to slow his frantic breathing. There was a way out of this. There had to be. He just had to stay calm. MacCready slowly walked forward, sweeping his hands in front of him to try and find the next row of chairs. If he was very lucky, he would be able to follow that row towards one of the walls. From there, he could at least navigate somewhat, as long as he never let go of the wall. He grunted as his leg connected with the back of a chair, and thew sniper felt along the top of the seat to find the start of the next. Slowly, carefully, he began to cross the occluded cavern.

Every step, he felt his heart prepared to give out. His mind conjured a thousand terrors in the dark, a horde of feral ghouls watching with their night-trained eyes as he struggled helplessly, unable to fight what he could not see or flee what he could not find. Ghouls rarely traveled alone. There had to be others. Any step might rouse them. The slightest sound might bring them roaring from the blackness, rotten, filthy teeth rending the sniper's flesh before he had a chance to react. Was this how he was going to die, alone in the dark, with nothing to comfort him but his deepest fears?

It seemed like hours passed before MacCready's hand connected with the cool, slightly damp concrete of the wall, but he immediately felt relief course through him as he felt the rough surface beneath his fingers. He still wasn't safe. But at least now, he had a fighting chance of finding an exit. He walked forward carefully, using the wall as a guide. He followed the structure as it rounded a corner before abruptly tripping and falling on his face. Damn stairs. MacCready groaned in pain, regaining his footing only to find that he'd twisted his damn ankle. Well, at least the stairs were headed up. Up was a good direction.

He hobbled up the stairs one at a time, clinging to the railing and trying not to make too much noise. Now that he was injured, his chances against a ghoul attack were even more dire. If he got out of this, he was definitely going to have to invest in a headlamp. Better to look dorky and live.

As he continued his climb, the sniper noticed that the air had begun to seem cleaner and less oppressive. That was a very good sign. If his luck held, there should be an exit into the greater airport complex ahead of him. Hopefully, unlocked. He could see light filtering down from above him. Finally, the ordeal was almost over. Finally, he'd be able to find Myra, to figure out why she'd abandoned him.

MacCready's hopes, however, were soon dashed as he heard a cacophony of angry snarls from behind him. Shit. More ferals. And they'd spotted him. In no position to run and in an even worse position to fight, the sniper screwed his eyes shut, hoping that the damn things would at least make it quick.

The hatch above him swung open on rusty hinges. "Hey! No!" Admonished a loud voice, accompanied by a loud metallic banging. "Back off! I've...I've got something way tastier for you. Here!" MacCready heard a wet squelching, followed by a hungry cry from below. He looked up, locking eyes with a young man who offered him an arm. "Come on. Let's get you out of there."

MacCready accepted the man's help with a slight nod, groaning as the stranger dragged him out of the stairwell and barred the door behind them. "How did you get them to back off like that?" the sniper asked, honestly a little impressed. He looked over his savior carefully. The young man was obviously a Brotherhood soldier, the faction crest displayed proudly on his combat armor. But he didn't have the blustering, arrogant attitude so many of his fellows wore like a uniform. He seemed...almost gentle. In fact, MacCready had to admit that he reminded him a lot of the Sterns.

His rescuer smiled shyly. "Oh, that? I just tossed some Cram down there. Ghouls love the stuff for some reason. But what about you? Why are you here, civilian? How'd you get in without the guards noticing?"

MacCready smirked. "In case you haven't noticed, pal, your little fort here's full of all kinds of holes. Pretty easy for a guy like me to slip in, really. That's something you and the rest of your Brotherhood goons might wanna think about for next time." No way he was going to give any indication of the hell he'd endured, or how grateful he was to see another human being under the terminal. He peeled the man's fingers off of his arm with a weary sigh. "Suppose I should thank you for saving my as..uh, my hide back there. The name's MacCready."

"Initiate Clarke," the man replied. "I work in logistics. I was just down here doing some cataloging. You're really lucky I was here."

MacCready smirked. "Tell me about it. But what were you cataloging, skeletons? There's nothing down here but decay and ferals."

The man paled at the word 'feral,' but MacCready chalked it up to him being scared of the damn things. Not like he'd blame the guy. "I can't say. It's classified."

"Relax, hot shot," the sniper snarked. "I'm not here to rob the place or anything. I just need some information. Tried to go in the front gate, but apparently Elder Maxson's decided to lock the damn doors."

The man's light grey eyes narrowed. "What sort of information? You're not after technology, right?"

The sniper rolled his eyes. "No. I'm looking for someone. You'd know her if you'd seen her. Tall woman, white hair, kind of a smartass?"

The Initiate thought for a moment. "You mean Knight Larimer?"

MacCready nodded. "Yeah. You seen her recently?"

"Yeah. She was..." he froze, eyeing MacCready carefully. "What's your business with her?"

"She's my friend," the sniper replied. "We were supposed to meet up a few weeks back, but she never showed. Last I heard, she was heading here. So have you seen her, or haven't you?"

"Yeah, she was here all right," the man replied. "But she's gone. She and that hardass Paladin Danse left a couple days ago on some errand or other."

The sniper sighed. "Great. That's just great. Well, you have any idea when she's due back?"

"Not a clue. I'd imagine it won't be too long now. Scuttlebutt's that we finally got a lead on Liberty Prime's nukes. That takes priority over any other mission."

MacCready's eyes widened as Clarke's words sunk in. "Wait. Did you just say Liberty Prime? And fu...freaking nukes?"

The young soldier's face paled, his pale eyes wide in horror. "I...no, I…"

"I think you did!" the sniper exclaimed victoriously. "I think you Brotherhood bas...uh, I mean, jerks have found a way to salvage Liberty Prime. And you're planning on using it in the Commonwealth. Is that about the gist?"

Clarke nodded slightly, his face still deathly pale. "You...you aren't going to hurt me, right? I mean, I saved you. You owe me." he stammered.

MacCready snorted in disgust. What a coward. "No, I'm not gonna do anything to you," he replied. "But I might hurt that idiot Myra when I find her. Why on earth would she help you clowns build a death machine?" He scowled, trying to piece together a weapon he was still a few screws shy of building. So the Brotherhood was trying to rebuild their giant stompy robot that had dominated the Capital Wasteland. For what? Just to destroy the Institute? No. MacCready knew the Brotherhood better than that. They wouldn't just decommission the thing once the Institute was destroyed. They'd keep it around, using the sheer intimidation factor to keep the Commonwealth in line. If Liberty Prime was rebuilt, it was only a matter of time before the Brotherhood of Steel would completely take over the Commonwealth.

How couldn't Myra see that? Why would she help them with such a dangerous piece of technology? Was it just to find her son? MacCready sighed. He certainly couldn't fault Myra for that. In a lot of ways, he was jealous of her dedication to her boy. If the sniper had been more like her, willing to deal with the devil himself if it meant saving Duncan, maybe he'd already have the cure by now. All the same, what sort of person would damn the Commonwealth for a single human, no matter how precious that individual was? It wasn't the Myra he thought he knew, that was damn sure.

He punched the terminal wall, causing Clarke to leap with shock. "Damn it, My!" he snarled. "What the hell are you thinking?"

"I...uh, I can't just leave you here," Clarke interjected. "I'm sorry, but it's not safe. And like I...uh, like I said, you shouldn't be here."

"Yeah, I'm not really in the mood to stick around," MacCready muttered. "Tell you what? You get me out the back door, and I won't tell anyone that I saw you here either."

The man nodded a little too eagerly for someone who was on official business, just as the sniper had suspected. Whatever Clarke was up to, he clearly didn't want anyone else to know about it. He ushered the sniper out through a series of passages, leaving him on the beach outside the airport. MacCready fumed silently, staring off into the water as gentle waves lapped ashore beside him. Myra wasn't hurt. She wasn't even in trouble. She was just working for the Brotherhood of Steel. He wasn't sure what hurt worse, the knowledge that he'd gone through such an ordeal just to find out that Myra wasn't even at the airport, or that his son's life clearly mattered so little to her that she couldn't even take time away from her precious Paladin to help him. MacCready had thought better of her, had excused her behavior so many times in his head as he'd sought out an explanation. Well, now he had one. And no excuse in the world was going to make up for what she'd done.

He picked up a large rock about the size of his palm, weighing it carefully in his hand before pitching the stone into the bay with a frustrated sigh. This was why he didn't trust people. This was why he never let himself believe that he mattered to his clients. Well, if Myra was determined to screw her life up, so be it. But he wasn't going to be around to watch.

"Besides," he mused, "I guess I've got a job back in Goodneighbor. Never thought I'd be happy to call that trash heap home again, but what can you do?" He grabbed a long piece of driftwood from the shore, using the salt-cured wood as a crutch, and quietly took his leave of the Brotherhood's stronghold, his heart heavy and his mind troubled.

* * *

**_A/N: So that's Deacon done with Myra's crap, and now MacCready too? Will she have any friends left by the end of this thing?_**

**_Sorry again for such a huge delay in getting chapters out! Job hunting is way more time-consuming than actually having a full-time job, apparently! Thanks for sticking with me in spite of the erratic schedule!_**

**_NEXT CHAPTER: Preston is faced with fear and uncertainty when a Minuteman settlement is targeted by unknown aggressors._**


	14. The Massacre

**14\. The Massacre**

**_One of the Minutemen's settlements is wiped off the map, and Preston is at a loss._**

* * *

Preston walked along the lake outside the Castle, taking the salty air into his lungs and exhaling with a contented sigh. It had become his habit to wander outside the walls in the early morning to watch the mist evaporate from the docks. There was something inherently satisfying about watching the world wake up, about seeing the progress that had been made over the last day.

What had once been a barren, craggy shore full of mirelurk corpses once more teemed with life as settlers in the village of Castle Lake began their days. Here, a mother scolded her children from their beds. There, a wizened fisherman wandered out to wrestle with his catch. Each day brought something new to the growing community, and Preston loved watching it grow in the shadow of the Minuteman stronghold.

The village itself was small, but tidy, a collection of families and other settlers eager to live close to the protection of the fort. Fishing shanties made from the salvage of old boats sat on handmade pontoons just off shore, connected to each other and the docks with flexible bridges of wood and rope. A cluster of five wood and metal shacks surrounded the old diner, which had been refurbished into a small store that serviced the village. Beyond that, along the bayshore, well-irrigated farms spread across the breakwater. Plump tatos reddened on the vine in one sector, while melons grew in green clusters in another. Still further on, ears of razorgrain blew gently in the morning breeze, bobbing their golden heads in greeting to the new day.

Work had even begun on a small schoolhouse near the Castle's external defenses, and Preston was eager for the day when the children of Castle Lake were able to take full advantage of their education. He had often looked at the decaying old brick schools from before the war with envy. There was so much he wanted to learn about the world, and the idea of spending a childhood immersed in knowledge instead of scraping through the dirt to feed his siblings seemed like an almost impossible dream. It was a dream that the Colonel wanted to fulfill for the next generation, and thanks to the Minutemen, he was hopeful that it would finally come to fruition.

As the Colonel made his way past the farms, he noticed that several of the villagers were already hard at work gathering the first fruits of the season. He approached one such worker in the tato fields, who was working on filling a large woven basket. Preston's eyes took in the contents of the basket almost greedily. "Say what you will about mirelurks," he mused, holding up a tato nearly the size of his head, "but they sure fertilize soil well. If these first crops are any indication, Castle Lake will be self-sufficient in no time!" He patted the farmer on the back gently. "Nice work!"

"Thank ya, Colonel Garvey!" the man replied, flashing Preston a gap-toothed grin. "I'll be bringin' the Minutemen's cut around this afternoon, don't ya worry!"

"I didn't doubt it!" Preston exclaimed with a warm smile. "As always, we're grateful for your support."

"An' we're just glad to be livin' somewhere safe," the farmer said with a nod as he continued working. "Glad to keep ya boys fed an' ready to fight. I'll admit, I wasn't sure you Minutemen were up to the task at first, but damn if you ain't proved me wrong. Firs' time I was really glad ta lose a bet, ya know? Maybe my girls'll have a chance at a good life now, thanks ta you. My little Flora's already askin' when she can join up."

The Colonel chuckled. "I'll have to make sure I thank her for her enthusiasm the next time I see her. She's a good kid, and when she's grown, I'll bet she'll be a fine…" he trailed off as a blur of movement in the distance caught his attention. He stared in confusion as the movement drew closer. It was one of his officers, running as fast as their legs could carry them towards the village. Not just any officer. It was Kestrel Davis. And her face was as white as a sheet.

Preston tore off to meet her, wondering what could cause the usually unflappable spy to look so distraught. He caught her by both arms, staring deeply into her gray eyes. "Davis? What's the matter?"

"I...I just…" she wheezed, breathless from her sprint. "We...have a problem."

"Just take a deep breath and tell me what happened," Preston replied calmly, offering her his canteen.

Kes took a deep gulp from the metal canister, gasping as her trembling hands clasped the strap like a lifeline. "Just received word from my men in the field," she continued. "Garvey...Taffington's gone."

"What do you mean, Taffington's gone?" Preston exclaimed, his eyes wide. He could barely comprehend what Kes was telling him. Taffington Boathouse...he'd helped establish that settlement himself months ago. It was a vibrant and thriving trading community, a crucial stop on the supply route from Starlight to Castle Lake. How could it just be gone?

"Just what I said," Kestrel replied, taking another drink before capping off the canteen and handing it back to the Colonel. "My men passed through there a couple days ago, and everything was fine. Came back through last night, and the place was leveled."

Preston frowned, trying to think past the surge of fear in his chest. "How is that possible? We have a radio network now. Someone would have called for help, or..."

"I don't know what to tell you, Garvey," Kes sighed. "Maybe they didn't have time to call for help. Looked like they got his fast and hard. The place was burned to the ground. Big ol' stack of bodies in the front yard, half-burned. Hell, it was a thorough job. I haven't seen work like this since I worked with… since I left the Mojave."

"There…" Preston's voice trailed off as he covered his mouth with his hand, gagging as he sunk to the moist earth. "There were six families there, Davis. There...hell, there were kids!"

She nodded. "Poor bastards never stood a chance. Whoever hit them was fast, methodical. They knew what they were doing."

"Damn it!" the Colonel cried, choking out the words. "I can't...We were supposed to protect them! We promised them that they would be safe with us!"

All at once, the horrors Preston had witnessed at Quincy came flooding back to him. Over the last few months, his nightmares had receded, each good deed and honorable action erasing a little more of the Minutemen's dishonor in his eyes. There had been setbacks since Myra had taken command, of course there had been. But losing a settlement had not yet been one of them.

He knew in the rational part of his mind that what had happened at Taffington was nothing like Quincy. The settlers at Quincy hadn't just been under-guarded. They had been willfully betrayed by members of the Minutemen, who had condemned civilians and their fellow militiamen to death for caps and immunity. Preston knew and trusted his men now. The patrol assigned to Taffington were good people. They would not have betrayed the settlers there.

Still, his heart was unconvinced. Somehow, this was his fault. The blood of all those poor families was on Preston's hands. With Myra off on some mission of her own once again, the responsibility fell squarely on his shoulders. And he knew that even if the facts vindicated his men, a tragedy like this would do little to bolster confidence in the Minutemen. What would happen the next time a settlement was attacked? Would they call for the militia, or would their trust in the Minutemen be irrevocably shaken by this incident?

The Colonel shook his head. Now wasn't the time to think about politics and power. People had died. Good people. And someone had to pay for that. "Did you receive any news about our patrol in the area?" he asked Kes softly.

She sighed heavily. "I thought you might ask that, so I had Cato search the area. Jones and Hayashi are confirmed dead. They were near the top of the pile. There wasn't a sign of Carazales or Moore, but...the fire had been burning for a long time before my men got there. It's hard to say."

Preston couldn't hold back his tears any longer, and he bawled openly, his heart breaking for the young men and women he had gotten to know over the last few months. Well, at least they hadn't turned their backs on the people they'd promised to protect. All the same, Karen Hayashi had a family. What was he going to tell her husband, her kids? And Ignacio Carazales...he was only just sixteen. If he was dead, too, who was going to take care of his little sister?

Kes knelt beside him, frowning at his emotional display. She tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. "You should be proud of them, Garvey. They were loyal to the very end, it seems. No leader could ask for more from their men."

He nodded, placing his hand on top of hers and squeezing tightly as he wept. "I...I know you don't approve of tears," he sobbed. "But I...I've never been that strong."

The fearsome warrior from the west shook her head. "That's not true, Colonel. There are plenty of times I've wished I could...that I could let myself feel things. After Ren's father was...lost to us, I…" she cleared her throat loudly, blushing brightly. "I've just rarely had that luxury. I promise, I don't think any less of you for this."

Preston looked at her in surprise. In the months he'd known Kes, he'd never seen her flustered. He'd honestly always found the spy to be heartless, calculating. To see her expressing any real depth of emotion was almost disturbing. "We've never really talked about your husband," he said softly. "I guess I was afraid to ask."

Kes laughed roughly, pulling her hand away. "Husband? Oh, no. We never married. Not in any way you'd understand it, at least. That's not the way he and I were."

"But you loved him, didn't you?" Preston asked, his pain dulled somewhat by curiosity. Kestrel Davis was many things, but rarely if ever was she an open book. "Sorry if I'm prying," he amended as she glared at him.

The spy sighed, rolling her eyes. "You really are. But if it'll help take your mind off of things...fine. I guess I can tell you a bit about Vulpes and I." She sat next to him on the ground, her grey eyes distant. "Vulpes Inculta wasn't the sort of man you loved. Respected, yes. Feared, undoubtedly. But loved? You'd have to be a special kind of insane to trust a man like that with your heart."

The Colonel watched her as she regaled him with the story of how she and Ren's father had met, at the scene of a massacre not unlike what had happened at Taffington. He shuddered as she told him of a lottery, of men turning on each other for a chance to escape the blaze unscathed. Kestrel's eyes softened as she described the cunning and ruthless man responsible, a demon with the head of a coyote and the voice of a distant and terrible storm. There was a tenderness to her demeanor, a vulnerability Preston had never seen in her before. Perhaps it was just because he'd never taken the time to ask.

"What we had…" Her voice cracked slightly as she spoke. "It was intense. It was violent. And it was exactly what I think we both needed. But could you really call that love? I'm not sure. Hell, I don't know if either of us was ever capable of something like that. We just weren't built that way."

Preston thought for a moment, trying to understand what she was saying. Whatever had happened between Kes and this man, if it hadn't been love, it had certainly left a lasting impression on her, more than just the scars from childbirth she bore. "I can't say I agree with you," he said softly. "I think love might come more naturally to you than you claim, Davis. And just looking at how you are with Renata, I think you know that too. But if that's what you need to believe, if that's what keeps you fighting…" he laughed bitterly. "Well, I guess I can understand that."

He thought of Myra, of how much it had hurt to see her breaking herself over other men when she'd so adamantly turned him down. Preston could have been good for her. He would have cherished his General as long as he was able to be at her side, would have done whatever he could to help her. Hell, in some ways, he still would. But he'd learned to let go of his romantic feelings for her. They merely slowed him down, merely made it difficult to continue his mission. Preston suspected that Kes was very much the same. If she let herself believe that she'd loved Vulpes, then she'd have to mourn him. And she simply didn't have the time to waste on heartbreak when the survival of her people was at stake.

Kes stood up, dusting herself off. The warmth and vulnerability evaporated from her face like morning dew. "Well, as lovely as this little heart-to-heart has been, Garvey, we've got work to do. What are we going to do about Taffington?"

He sighed, standing as well. She was absolutely right. There was no time to feel sorry for himself and those they had lost. The only way to make things right now was to take appropriate action against whoever had committed this atrocity. "First, we have to find out who was responsible," he said. "We can't protect our people if we don't know the threat."

"Good news is I think I have a lead." Kes pulled a small bundle of bloodstained fabric from her pack, tossing it to the ground at Preston's feet. Carefully, he unwrapped the damp cloth to reveal a long metal spike about the size of his forearm, a crusty rust-like substance staining the metal.

The Colonel frowned, turning the heavy metal stake over in his hands. "Is this a railway spike?" he asked, confused.

Kes nodded. "My Foxes found a ton of them scattered around the site. Some of them were lodged in the dead. Others had been driven so forcefully that they were buried to the head in the boathouse walls. Whatever caused this...it was a highly specialized weapon. I've only seen one like it before. In the Railroad's possession."

Preston felt the blood drain from his face. "You think the Railroad did this?" he asked in horror. "Why would they massacre civilians? Especially at a Minuteman settlement. We've never had a quarrel with the Railroad!"

"It looks like they sure as hell have a quarrel with us," Kes said gruffly. "I'm sorry, Preston. I know that you don't exactly disagree with the Railroad's mission. But as your tactical adviser, I don't think we have much of a choice but to retaliate for this. We can't show weakness. Not when they've burned a settlement to the ground."

"There has to be another explanation!" Preston insisted. "Yes, the Railroad seems to think that synth lives are more important than those of humans. But to stage an attack like this…that's not the Railroad I've come to know."

Kes frowned, handing him a large manila file stuffed with documents. "That's not all. I found this file in the General's quarters. Apparently, the Brotherhood of Steel has been keeping tabs on Railroad attacks for years. Whatever you believe, they are ruthless people, and after you read this, I think you'll agree that they are more than capable of a massacre like this."

"What were you doing in the General's quarters?" Preston asked, cocking an eyebrow at her.

Kes shrugged. "I'm a spy, Garvey. That's why you allied with me, isn't it? I was doing my job."

"But Myra's-"

The woman rolled her eyes. "Like it or not, the General's an excellent source of information on the other organizations at play. She's got connections to both the Railroad and the Brotherhood of Steel. Plus, her own son's the head of the goddamn Institute!" She grinned as Preston stared at her. "Don't look so surprised. I probably knew that before you did. My Foxes are very good at their job. A job you pay us for, I might add. So, you know, you're welcome."

Preston sighed. He knew that Kestrel was right. But it wasn't her violation of Myra's privacy that had the Colonel so on edge. He opened the file, his heart sinking as he began to read about massacred patrols, about soldiers burned alive in their own barracks. How could the Railroad do this? How could an organization that claimed to present the best parts of humanity destroy so many human lives in the name of protecting synths? More so, how could Talise and Myra ever be part of a group like that?

The more he read, the more feasible the theory that the Railroad had attacked Taffington became in his mind. But something still seemed...off about the whole thing. He looked up at Kes, his eyes searching hers for any sign of doubt. "Davis, did you go over the scene yourself?" he asked softly.

She shook her head. "I sent Cato in my place," she replied. "But he's always been one of our most dependable agents. He would have had no reason to lie to me about what he saw."

"So you trust Cato," Preston pressed.

"As much as I trust anyone," Kes replied. "He's saved my life and Ren's on more than one occasion. After Ignatius, he was one of the first to agree to follow my leadership in Vulpes' stead, and he has never given me reason to doubt his loyalty."

"Still," Preston argued, "we're basing everything off of one guy's perspective. I want to see the evidence for myself." He offered her a troubled but determined smile. "While I'm gone, you're in charge of the Castle. No attacks on the Railroad until I'm certain that they are responsible. Do you understand?"

Kes nodded. "I don't think what you're doing is necessary," she countered. "In fact, I think you're an idiot for not striking before they destroy another settlement. But hey, it's your call. I agreed to follow you when I joined the Minutemen, at least as long as you respect our autonomy, and that's what I'll do. I just hope you realize what a stupid risk this is."

"Noted," Preston replied with a slight smile. "You're probably right, Kes. But I don't want to have to face the consequences if you're wrong."

"Will you at least take a patrol with you?" she asked, her grey eyes fierce. "The last thing anyone needs is you getting your ass killed before you even get there."

The Colonel shook his head. "We're down too many men right now as it is. What if someone attacks the Castle while I'm gone? You'll need everyone here to bring the villagers inside the keep. I won't fail them, too."

She sighed. "Fine. You stubborn asshole. I might not be able to offer you help on the way, but I'll have Cato meet you there. Don't even try to tell me no. We can't be sure that whoever attacked Taffington won't still be watching the site. I don't want you to go alone." Kes thought for a moment, stroking her chin with a gloved hand. "Or maybe I do. I'll be de facto in charge of the Minutemen if you die, right? I mean, the General's basically never around, so..."

Preston chuckled. "Yeah, no. If anything happens to me, Sturges is the next highest-ranked officer. He's technically a Lieutenant Colonel now. That's why he's in charge of our northern headquarters in Sanctuary. Zev's next-highest after Sturges due to seniority, and then you. Didn't you know that?"

Kes moaned. "Well, then, I'd definitely better keep you alive, Garvey. Like hell I'm following either of those boneheads. You're at least tolerable, even if you are naive as all hell."

He smiled warmly at her. "Davis, that might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me. Which is pretty sad. But still, thanks."

"Ugh!" Kes groaned. "Please. You're gonna make me lose my lunch. Just get out of here before a drum circle breaks out."

Preston shot her one last grin before heading back to the Castle to gather his belongings, his laser musket swung over one shoulder. Taffington was a two day journey in the best of conditions, and even if he sprinted most of the way, it would be difficult to cover that distance before most of the evidence was destroyed by the elements. As long as the sky remained clear, however, there was a chance that something might survive for him to find.

What would he do if Cato's assessment was correct after all? What if the Railroad had really murdered an entire settlement, adults and children alike? It was horrifying to contemplate that the secretive organization was really capable of such wanton brutality. Certainly, the Brotherhood of Steel's file had indicated that the Railroad had committed acts of terrorism in the past. But, at least according to those reports, it had always been against targets that could be seen as a threat to synths. The Brotherhood wasn't exactly full of saints, either, and the two organizations had been at war with each other on and off for what looked like at least a decade. While horrible, Preston could understand how the Railroad could justify killing Brotherhood soldiers. But slaughtering children? That just didn't seem like the Railroad members the Colonel had met.

His mind raced as he thought of Talise, of her deep, soulful brown eyes that seemed incapable of deceit, of her gentle, kind personality. How could someone like her be a member of an organization that would kill kids? Even if she hadn't been involved in this attack, if the Railroad had done anything like this...how could she have gone back to them? It made his blood boil as he thought about Deacon dragging Talise back to his master like a junkyard dog on a chain. All the young woman had wanted was a chance to make the world better, and Preston had believed that she would have found that opportunity in the Minutemen. Was she really happy with the Railroad? Was she safe? Hell, was she even still alive?

He tried to bury the thought. No, it didn't do to speculate. Not until he had all the facts. The last thing Preston wanted was to plunge the Minutemen into an unnecessary conflict while the real criminals ran free to terrorize another batch of innocents. And the very last thing he wanted to think about right now was Talise, and the possibility that she had been playing him all along.

Preston hustled through the streets of South Boston, keeping to the shadows wherever he could. If he was very lucky and made the best possible time, he could reach Bunker Hill by sundown. He would spend the night in the flophouse there before following the river north to Taffington, and hopefully to answers. It would perhaps be more prudent for him to make it a three day trip and spend the first night in Goodneighbor, but Preston had always hated that nearly-lawless town. The last time he'd passed through there, he'd barely escaped getting mugged by a group of chem-addled ghouls who'd stolen his hat and jeered at him as they chased him through the streets. No one there had any respect for anything except their vices. Well, and their junkie mayor, but he was honestly the worst of the lot. No, Preston would make for Bunker Hill. That'd be a better arrangement, all around.

The Colonel stepped as lightly as possible, trying to avoid the Super Mutants who frequently patrolled the riverbanks. Maybe Kestrel had been right, and he should have taken a small squad with him. He hadn't wanted to be seen, but if he was caught, there wasn't a whole lot he could do on his own with just a laser musket and his wits. The musket was a powerful weapon, but its wind-up time left a lot to be desired. Against one or two enemies, it'd be fine. But against a host of angry mutants? He'd be better off just throwing it at them and running as fast as he could.

Fortunately, the remaining twisted structures that had once been a city provided a lot of good cover, and as long as he was smart and patient, Preston would have little trouble sneaking past most enemies. He hated to move so slowly, especially since he was travelling quite a significant distance, but if it was between speed and getting smashed to bits or sluggishness and arriving at Bunker Hill alive, the Colonel knew which he preferred.

The sun was already beginning its descent by the time he cleared South Boston and arrived in the Common, and Preston groaned in frustration as he consulted his map. Already late afternoon, and he was only halfway to Bunker Hill? This was not going well. Not at all. Still, what could he have done? Not only had he needed to hide to avoid multiple Super Mutant raiding parties, but then there'd been the mirelurks, and the raiders...why today of all days was every enemy in the Commonwealth using South Boston as a thoroughfare? He was lucky he hadn't run into the waiting jaws of a damned deathclaw!

Preston knew he didn't have time to rest, but the fearsome growling of his stomach reminded him that he hadn't exactly stopped for breakfast before charging into the wasteland. With a frustrated and tired groan, he sat under a large oak tree by the old swan pond, fishing in his pack for his provisions. The Colonel pulled a small leather sack from his bag, opening it carefully. He smiled slightly as the fruity aroma wafted past his nose. Sun-cured mutfruit and silt bean leather. He'd hoped he still had some stowed away.

He bit down on a scrap of the chewy, burgundy substance, enjoying the way the tangy, slightly salty flavor played across his tongue. It had been one of Kestrel's strange innovations, combining crushed fruit and vegetables with wine and leaving the whole thing to bake under the sun in the sea air in large sheets. He had to admit, he'd been skeptical, but the spy had assured him that they made preserves like this all the time in the desert. The results spoke for themselves. It was like a little taste of sunshine with the vitamins and sugars he needed to keep going. Not to mention, the stuff lasted almost forever, and any way they had to store and preserve food was a godsend.

Preston chased his snack with water from his canteen, relaxing a little as his weary body felt refreshed from the quick pit stop. There was a faint breeze through the ruined skyscrapers that rustled the skeletal branches above his head. For all the horror stories Preston had heard about the Common, it seemed like a peaceful enough place. Of course, Myra had told him about her encounter with a Super Mutant Behemoth that had lived in the pond. Now that the infamous Swan was dead, perhaps the park was finally safe. Well, as safe as anything in the 'Wealth really was. If Preston had learned one thing in his years on this earth, it was never to take a quiet moment for granted.

He resealed the bottle and packed the remaining fruit leather away before standing, hissing as his legs cramped up. Damn, he shouldn't have rested. Now it was going to be even harder to get going. What had he been thinking? He really wasn't used to these long runs any more. Since the Minutemen had grown so dramatically over the last few months, Preston had become less of an active member of the militia and more of an administrator. Still, he'd had no idea that he'd gotten this rusty. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

This was exactly why he hadn't wanted to be the General of the Minutemen, why he'd asked a near-stranger to take the responsibility from him before he lost himself to the job. Preston didn't feel like he deserved to live safe and comfortable behind fortress walls while the men and women who worked for him on behalf of the Commonwealth fought and died to protect the innocent. He belonged on the battlefield, bleeding and fighting along with his fellows, giving everything he had to make up for how badly he and his men had failed at Quincy. The last thing he wanted was to be just another man giving orders that cost lives and risking nothing of himself. It seemed to him that leading as an administrator was the coward's way forward. Preston never wanted to be accused of letting other people fight his battles for him. But wasn't that exactly what he'd been doing from the start?

Myra had never asked to be General. Preston had manipulated her into it, knowing that if he could get someone else to take that burden from his shoulders, he'd be free to die the way he should have at Quincy, with a laser musket in his hand, protecting the Commonwealth at any cost. But he had fled Quincy, saving a handful of people, yes, but at the cost of everyone else. He had been determined to make up for that, or so he'd told himself. But what exactly had he done since? He'd built a few settlements, sure. And he'd helped retake the Castle. But even then, Myra and Danse had taken most of the risk, while Preston had taken cover and kept a safe distance. He wanted so badly to be a hero, but when trials arose, he often managed to narrowly avoid heroic actions. And now, he wasn't even strong enough to take a day trip without getting tired.

Preston berated himself silently as he began his hike once more. Now wasn't the time for mortification. He'd failed the people of Taffington, and he owed it to them to find out what had really happened there. It wouldn't fix the tragedy, or bring back those innocent lives. But it would be a start down a new path, a way to work towards being the man Preston desperately wanted to be. Not a General. He never wanted to be a General. But the sort of man others could look up to. The sort of man who wouldn't let his fear stop him from following his convictions. A real hero. One of the good guys.

As the Colonel clambered over the massive debris pile near the Old Corner Bookstore, he heard a strange noise that he didn't recognize, that sounded something like a child's cry mixed with a croaking rasp. He dropped down to street level, pressing himself tightly against the mound of twisted metal and concrete rubble as he waited for whatever had made the noise to pass him by. The noise grew louder, accompanied by a persistent scratching as if a cluster of tiny feet were scratching at the other side of the pile, trying to scramble up after him. He felt his heart stop as the scratching drew nearer, higher up the mound. He couldn't risk staying here to find out what was coming. But he also couldn't risk moving, alerting the horrible thing to his presence.

Suddenly, a pair of hands yanked him backwards, dragging him into the bookstore. Preston tried to cry out, tried to fight back, but his mouth was swiftly covered with a filthy hand that reeked of old blood and stale cigarettes, his body pressed tightly against the interior wall of the old shop. "Shh!" his assailant commanded in a rough whisper, his face hidden by a stained sack hood. "Unless you wanna die, stay completely still."

There was a clacking sound in the shadows to Preston's left, and his eyes widened in horror as they met the horrible, twisted face of a mechanical insect that whirred and clicked as its beady eyes analyzed him. The Colonel whimpered as the monstrosity drew closer, a vicious needle shining in the dark as it bobbed its horrible head. He had to escape. Preston bit down on the fleshy part of the man's hand, trying to wriggle free. He wasn't going to go down without a fight. Not this time.

The stranger cursed under his breath, dragging Preston deeper into the building. "Oww! Would you calm down?" he hissed. "Do you really want to die that badly?"

Preston struggled against him, but though the man was smaller than the Colonel, he seemed to be significantly stronger. Within moments, he'd wrestled Preston to the ground and pinned him there, his hand pressed even more urgently against the minuteman's mouth.

Outside, the croaking cries continued, tiny feet scraping against the wooden door like skeletal fingernails. Preston choked back a cry of fear, tears in his eyes as he realized that no matter what, he wasn't likely to escape this building alive.

* * *

**_A/N: Things certainly seem to be escalating. First the Brotherhood is attacked at Somerville, and now this? What's going on? And, more importantly, who is really responsible? Is this the Railroad's doing? If so, why?_**

**_NEXT CHAPTER: Deacon and his new companions try to get to the root of who (or what) is attacking their people._**


	15. The Murder

**15\. The Murder**

**_Deacon and Preston put aside their issues to try and figure out what really happened at Taffington._**

* * *

"Oww!" Deacon hissed in pain as Preston's teeth clamped down on his hand. His grip on the Minuteman's face loosened slightly as he wrestled the taller man away from the door and the approaching Watchers. "Would you calm down? Do you really wanna die that badly?"

The answer to his query seemed to be yes, as Preston's struggles were unrelenting. Deacon couldn't exactly blame the man. After all, it wasn't like the spy had really had a chance to explain the situation. Even the warnings he whispered harshly to the Colonel were a risk. Watchers, after all, were designed for surveillance. He had no doubt that the biomechanical birds could hear far better than humans. Of course, how good their hearing was happened to be a question he was still trying to answer.

The spy had been careful, watching the skies for any sign of Watcher activity as he moved from site to site, waiting for an opportunity to catch one of the surveillance birds off-guard. Deacon wasn't entirely sure how he was meant to lure one away from the flock, let alone capture one alive. But if he wanted to patch things up with Dez - and even more crucial, keep Trailblazer out of the choleric leader's line of fire as much as possible - he needed to succeed in his mission. This was one operation he couldn't afford to screw up.

The flocking was one of the strangest things he'd noticed in the Watchers' behavior in recent days. The birds had been a part of the Commonwealth landscape for years, now. Before the attacks had started, though, they'd appeared alone or in pairs. Now, the biomechanical spies seemed to travel only in flocks of ten or more, darkening the skies with their wings as they descended on their prey. It was a strange development, and unfortunately for Deacon, made his present job that much harder.

Deacon had selected the Old Corner Bookstore as a funneling point after over a week of careful deliberation. Because of the way the building was set up, it was difficult for the flock to move en masse within the walls. Certainly, it was dangerous to put himself in such close quarters with the Watchers, but he had taken all the precautions he could. He'd covered his face in a burlap sack to protect his identity as well as his tender skin. He'd bundled up in foul old hides like a deep-waste trapper, both for added armor as well as means to mask his scent. No one was entirely sure how developed the Watchers' sense of smell was, but Deacon wasn't about to take unnecessary chances. He needed to get this right, or more lives than just his own would be forfeit.

It had been a good plan: lure in as few Watchers as possible by opening the door and closing it quickly. Then, use a large weighted net to snare the birds and hold them down for Tracey to do her work. But Preston's intrusion was not part of the plan. In fact, his appearance had changed too many variables, had left both men vulnerable to attack.

The minuteman in question was still fighting against Deacon's grip, and the spy sighed heavily as he stabilized himself over the flailing man. "You know, Preston, I always figured we'd end up in this position someday," he joked softly, hoping some levity would calm the taller man. "Definitely didn't think we'd still have our clothes on." The Colonel's eyes widened, but he did seem to relax somewhat. Deacon eased up on him slightly, relieved that they were finally getting somewhere. "There you go. Now just let me-"

Preston bucked his hips, catching Deacon off-guard and sending him sprawling forward with a cry of alarm. The scratching on the outside of the walls intensified, croaks and caws of rage and triumph filling the air. Preston scrambled to his feet, making for the door, Deacon hot on his heels. The spy caught him by the back of his duster, yanking him roughly to the ground behind one of the empty bookcases. He winced as the Colonel's head connected with the edge of the shelf, ripping a vicious gash in his forehead.

"Are you crazy?" Deacon hissed, one hand once again firmly clasped over Preston's mouth. "Do you have any idea how much danger we're in here? Unless you wanna be a suet treat, I need you to cool it, okay? I promise, I'm not trying to hurt you. But if you don't stop flailing, you're gonna get us both killed."

Preston groaned in pain, clutching at his wounded head. Deacon sighed. "Look," he continued. "I've got medical supplies. If you'll let me, I can patch you up. But I'll need both hands. If I take my hand off of your mouth, you're not gonna scream like a little girl, right?" Preston nodded, his eyes wide with fear. Deacon nodded, slowly releasing his hold on the Colonel. "Good choice," he continued, fishing in his bag for gauze and antiseptic.

"Who are you?" Preston groaned softly. "Why are you doing this? If you need caps…"

Deacon snorted as he treated the Colonel's head injury. "Me?" he mused under his breath, leaning close as he dabbed at Preston's head with an alcohol-soaked cloth. "I'm just an ordinary guy who really, really likes beating up poor, defenseless minutemen. I also enjoy hopscotch, but I'm not sure this is the time or the place for that."

"Enough...ugh...enough games," Preston muttered. "Just...tell me what you want."

"What I really want is for you to hold still and be quiet," Deacon retorted as quietly as possible, putting the finishing touches on his field dressing. "You're messing up my operation. I'll answer your questions as soon as it's safe. Scout's honor."

Preston nodded in agreement, much to Deacon's relief. Tracey, who had until now been content to merely observe to conflict, skittered closer on her horrible, spindly legs. She stretched her leather wings lazily, cocking her head to one side as she watched Preston. If the awful little robot could emote, Deacon was pretty sure it would be grinning at the Colonel. Preston whimpered as the mechanical abomination nudged against him, whirring and clicking. Damn, could Tracey taste fear? It sure looked like she could taste fear.

"Am I the only one working today?" Deacon whispered in exasperation. "Tracey, get ready. I'm gonna open the door. Preston, you can...here," he added, tossing a leather jacket to the minuteman. "Cover your face and hands with this. And stay quiet."

The Colonel nodded, ducking under the leather jacket. Whether he'd realized he wasn't in immediate danger from Deacon or simply was too overwhelmed to keep fighting back, at least Preston was smart enough to follow instructions. Thank the heavens for small miracles, Deacon supposed. The spy walked carefully back towards the door, his weighted net in hand. Tracey, for her part, flew awkwardly in a low spiral, resting precariously on the top of one of the old magazine racks nearby. Deacon tried not to make direct eye contact.

"Ok," Deacon murmured. "On one...two...three!" He sung the door open, protecting himself as best as he could against the onslaught of vicious talons, sharp beaks, and furious black wings. He screamed in equal parts fear and adrenaline-fueled rage as he pushed against the tide, trying to slam the door shut again. It took him far longer than he'd anticipated. As it was, an individual Watcher didn't weigh that much or have much power. After all, the birds they were modeled on only weighed a pound or two each. But a flock of over a dozen, all fighting to break through into the shabby room? The sheer malevolent force they generated was overwhelming. The spy cried out in alarm as his rifle was knocked from his shoulder, skittering across the floor out of reach. Things weren't looking promising.

Still, Deacon was determined not to go out this way. He'd always figured he'd die in some incredibly stupid manner. But pecked to death while dressed like a demented scarecrow, with only a freaky robot and Preston Garvey of all people to mourn him? "Yeah, this...isn't happening!" he howled, summoning his last reserves of strength to heave the door shut. He groaned as he dropped a heavy bookcase over the entrance. That should keep the rest of the little bastards out. "Now, how many of you got in?" he mused, looking around.

The spy counted three Watchers that he could see, but that didn't mean a whole hell of a lot. There were plenty of places they could hide, from the rafters to a few literal holes in the ground. Deacon let out a nervous, shaky breath as he stalked towards the nearest artificial crow. The bird who sat on the old checkout counter, its beady eyes bright with murderous intent. He readied his net, hoping not to spook his target.

Naturally, however, the Watcher was smart enough to see through his game, and it took off through the air. If birds could laugh mockingly, Deacon was certain the air would be filled with cackling. As it was, the biomechanical bastard just settled into the rafters, cawing its horrid little head off.

"'No, you don't need a partner,' they said," Deacon muttered bitterly as he sought out his next target. "'Take this awful little robot instead,' they said. 'You'll think of something.' Well, have any of them ever tried to catch one of these little sons of bitches?"

He crept forward towards another Watcher. This one, at least, had its back to him. But the moment he got within striking range, it hopped along the floor away from him, staying out of reach. He groaned in frustration, chasing it. Damn it, he could swear that these things were enjoying this.

The Watcher flew a short distance, resting on top of the bookcase Preston had been hiding behind. It cocked its head at Deacon, as if goading him to try and catch it. The smug synthetic asshole...

Suddenly, a pair of gloved hands shot up from behind the bookshelf, grasping the Watcher tightly as it cawed and flailed in confusion and ire. "Do it!" hissed Preston. "Whatever you're gonna do. I'm not sure how long I can hold this!"

Deacon leapt into action, scooping the raging bird into his net and twisting the mess of cords to render it immobile. He nodded to Preston. "Quick thinking. Thanks."

The minuteman smiled slightly, dusting himself off. "You got a plan for the rest of these things, or…"

Deacon nodded, pulling his spare pistol from his boot. "Yeah. And honestly, after the last week of this bullshit, I think I'm really going to enjoy this part." He took aim at the bird in the rafters, felling it with a single, silenced shot. The Watcher exploded in a burst of black feathers, flapping uselessly to the ground. "You think you can shoot?" he asked Preston.

The Colonel readied his laser musket. "Do I?" He cranked the charger, wincing as his stiff muscles contracted and relaxed. A hot red laser blast caught one of the other birds in the wing, burning it clean off.

"Maybe that head injury's worse than I thought," Deacon teased as he crushed the wounded creature under his heel, his stomach heaving at the sensation. He tried to remind himself that these synthetic birds were dangerous, that they had to be put down...but all he could think of was how fragile and small they really were.

"No thanks to you," Preston groaned. "Is that all of them?"

Deacon shrugged. "I hope so. Didn't see any others, but these Watchers are sneaky. We need to stay on our guard." He placed the frantic, squirming net on the splintery wooden floor, eyeing the Watcher inside carefully. "Tracey, do your thing."

"Affirmative," the little robot wheezed in its gentle feminine voice. It hopped over to the captured bird, scanning it slowly. "Object...synthetic avian. Beginning...analysis." Tracey extended two of its legs, grasping each of the bird's wings at the base of its body and pulling it prone. The Watcher struggled weakly, its eyes wide with what almost looked like...fear? It croaked in alarm as Tracey hovered over it, scanning the bird's body with a bright beam of white light. "Avian bone...structure. Composition...organic. Circulatory system...artificial. Processing...processing…"

Preston frowned. "What exactly are you looking for?" he asked softly.

"I'm trying to punish these little bastards for eating old Blake Abernathy's corn," Deacon offered. "Farming's a hard enough life without menaces like these. He paid me good money to teach them a lesson."

The Colonel snorted. "Do you really expect me to believe that, when you're using a robot like that?"

"No, but I was kind of hoping you would," Deacon said with a sigh. "Look, it's not really any of your business. Hell, if you hadn't blundered into the middle of my op, both of us would be a heck of a lot more comfortable right about now."

"Are you seriously going to just ignore the fact that I caught that bird for you?" Preston said with an incredulous look. "If I wasn't here, you'd probably still be chasing that thing." He sighed. "Look, at least tell me who you are. You obviously know me, whether that's because we've met or because you've heard of me. I'm not really fond of being at such a disadvantage."

Deacon rolled his eyes. He hated to admit it, but Preston had a point. He was just about to pull off his hood when he saw a dark shape dart towards the back of Preston's head. "Shit!" the spy cried, pulling his gun. Preston stared at him in horror as Deacon pointed his pistol at him and fired. The bullet whizzed past the Colonel's head, striking the Watcher down.

"What the hell?" Preston bellowed. "You almost shot me!"

"Hey, I saved your life. Again. So maybe cool it with the -" Preston stormed up to the spy, yanking his hood off. "Fine!" Deacon cried, readjusting his sunglasses. "It's me, Deacon. I know, what a shocker!"

Preston's eyes hardened, and before Deacon could react, he found himself thrown up over an upended bookshelf, the minuteman's hand bunched in Deacon's collar. The other was balled in a tight fist, poised to strike him down. "You son of a bitch!" the Colonel growled.

"You'd be amazed how often people have this exact reaction to me," Deacon mused with a measured smirk. "But is there a particular reason why you wanna punch me, or is it just Tuesday?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Deacon saw Tracey continuing her analysis. The spy grimaced as Tracey shot forward like a praying mantis, stabbing into the Watcher's flesh with its needle-like proboscis. The bird almost whimpered as it was impaled on the spike, shuddering as the little robot held it down tighter. God, it was horrible. He felt sick. There had to have been a more humane way of doing this. Sure, they were murderous little drones, but...what if they were sentient? Had Tinker Tom even considered that possibility?

Preston glared down at him. "You know, I've never really liked you, Deacon. I've always thought the Railroad's cause was just, and I tolerated you because the General is so fond of you for some reason I just can't understand. But personally, I think you're scum. Just so we're clear."

"You and half the people who know me," Deacon replied, swallowing back the bile in his throat. "But this isn't just because I rub you the wrong way, is it?"

The Colonel shook his head. "No. You know damn well why I'm angry at you."

"If this is about Trail," Deacon said coolly, "she's the one who volunteered to come in from the cold. That wasn't my decision."

"And Talise never would have left the Minutemen unless you needed her help," Preston retorted bitterly. "Do you have any idea how scared she was when I found her? She was terrified of your people coming after her! Then one conversation with you and she's suddenly going back? Don't pretend you had nothing to do with it! I promised to protect her, Deacon! I should have known enough to protect her from you!"

Deacon whistled softly. "Damn. I mean, I knew how she...I didn't think you..." The spy trailed off, choosing his next words carefully. "Trust me, Preston. After everything she's been through, I never wanted to see Trail get hurt. She's...well, she's special. And she deserves to be happy. I promise, it wasn't my decision. She came back to the Railroad to save Myra."

Preston's eyes widened slightly, and his grip loosened just a fraction. "To save Myra? Why? What's going on?"

Deacon sighed. "Things with Myra...they're pretty damn complicated. And I'm not sure how much I should tell you, if she hasn't told you herself. Let's just say that she's made herself some powerful enemies, people who'd rather not see her continue down the path she's on."

The Colonel's frown deepened. "Suppose I believe you. Then why would Talise...why would you..."

The spy felt his heart tremble violently in his chest, not unlike the Watcher that Tracey was probing. Could he really trust this man, this naive, impulsive man who presently had him in a death grip, with the truth that Deacon himself was only barely willing to admit? But what really was the alternative? What lie would satisfy, would fix this situation before it got worse? Hundreds of threads twisted through Deacon's mind, stories and half-truths that tangled into and through each other. Each one he yanked on led to another, and each path to its consequence. Was there a single one less messy than the truth this time? Or...

"Because I love her!" Deacon growled, his mouth hanging open slightly after the words had passed his lips as though he himself could scarcely believe that he was saying them out loud.

Preston stared at him, his deep brown eyes frozen in shock. "You...what?"

"I love Myra," the spy continued, his voice softer now, an apology of sorts. "Not that it matters, now."

The minuteman exhaled slowly. He let go of Deacon's collar and offered him a hand up. "I...damn, you too?"

Deacon nodded simply, hauling himself up with a groan. "I really tried to avoid it, but hell, you know how she is."

Preston huffed, kicking at the ground distractedly. "Yeah. And who she's got eyes for."

"No one else ever stood a chance," Deacon concluded. "Not that I would have taken one anyway. Guys like me, we...we don't exactly get to be happy, you know? But I hoped that I could at least save her from herself. Turns out I can't even do that, not without help." He looked up at Preston, his mouth set in a firm line. "I never wanted Trail caught up in this. I hope you believe that, if nothing else."

Preston watched him carefully for a long moment, his eyes unwavering. Finally, he sighed, offering Deacon a weak smile. "I do. Hell, I only knew Talise for a little while, but I know what she's like. That girl's stubborn as hell when she cares about something. And whether I like it or not, she cares about you." The Colonel glanced over at Tracey, his cheeks a little green as he watched the robot at work. "But this isn't just about Talise. What the hell are you Railroad guys up to, exactly? What does any of this have to do with saving synths?"

"There's other things that are just as important as saving synths," Deacon replied cryptically. "Like survival."

"Survival." Preston's eyes darkened slightly, his voice a low growl. "Is that what this is? What about Taffington?"

Deacon looked at him in confusion. "What _about_ Taffington?"

"Your people destroyed it," the Colonel replied, his right hand gripping the strap of his laser musket as he stared the spy down, "or at least that's what the initial report suggests."

Deacon gulped nervously. This was the first he was hearing about anything of the sort, and the implication of something big like an attack on a settlement happening without him knowing was...disturbing. Was Desdemona keeping things from him? Had he gotten bypassed in the chain of communication? Or was he simply so preoccupied that his networks were failing? None of those scenarios boded well for him, or, by extension, for the long-term survival of the Railroad. It was Deacon's job to know things. If he no longer knew things, they were screwed. He had to get a handle on the situation, and fast.

"That's...a hell of an accusation, pal," Deacon said softly. "Destroying a settlement? That doesn't sound like us. I mean, yeah, we aren't exactly the most social neighbors, but why would we attack Taffington?"

"There were railway spikes all over the scene of the massacre," Preston replied. "And if that wasn't enough...I've seen the Brotherhood's file on your organization, Deacon. I know what you've done. The Railroad doesn't exactly have clean hands."

That damned file again! Deacon groaned. First Whisper had been turned against the Railroad because of it, and that had been bad enough. But now the rest of the Minutemen knew about it as well? Was this the Brotherhood's plan all along, to start a war between two of the only powers who could prevent them from taking over the Commonwealth and molding it into their own image? "Look, we both know that intel like that's inherently biased," Deacon protested. "And I swear to you, whatever you think you know...I'm just as shocked about Taffington as you. I promise, we didn't attack your settlement."

"Given how much you love to lie," Preston countered, "I don't exactly trust your promises."

Damn. Another moment of truth. Deacon wasn't sure how much more honesty he could take today. He was gonna have to tell some real doozies later, just to keep things nice and murky. He really shouldn't tell Preston anything else. But given what had happened...if Taffington was really destroyed, was there any harm in telling the Colonel any more? "That's fair," Deacon agreed. "But riddle me this, then: why would the Railroad attack our own safehouse?"

Preston watched him carefully. "Are you seriously expecting me to believe that Taffington was a Railroad safehouse?"

The spy nodded. "Yeah. Mercer Safehouse. Whisp...I mean, Myra and I founded it together. It was a good location, easy access to the channel, but not immediately on the coast. Not to mention, it was supposed to be under Minutemen protection as well as ours. Those spikes you found were probably our agents defending themselves." He sighed heavily. "So Mercer's gone, too. Damn. They've been dark for a while now, so it's not a huge shocker, but I was really hoping they were just being cautious."

Preston's eyes narrowed. "Deacon, what's happening here? You sound like you're not surprised to hear that Taffington's been destroyed. If you didn't have anything to do with it, that means you know something about who did. So spill."

Deacon nodded. "I don't normally share intel like this. But if I'm right...this affects both of us." He gestured to Tracey, who had moved from tissue analysis directly into vivisection. Damn, Tom was not messing around with this thing, was he? "I think that's a clue."

"What, your robot did all this?" the Colonel asked, confused.

The spy sighed. "No, Preston. The Watchers. Whatever's got them going all nutso and homicidal might have something to do with what happened at your settlement. Now, it's just a hunch, but...Did your people find any feathers at the scene?"

"If they did, they didn't tell me," the Colonel replied with a soft frown. "I was on my way to see the evidence for myself when, well…" he gestured around. "When all this happened."

Deacon thought for a moment. "Can I tag along with you? I mean, I have to wait for Tracey here to finish torturing this Watcher, but maybe an extra set of eyes would help. I think we both need to find out what happened there."

"I guess I can't stop you," Preston agreed. "But that doesn't change the fact that I don't trust you."

"Well, I'm pretty used to that," Deacon replied with a sly grin. "Hell, I wouldn't trust me either. Guess you're smarter than you look."

"Thanks," the Colonel replied. "I think."

"Therefore you are," Deacon quipped, retrieving his rifle. "Now, why don't you tell me everything you know about the attack so far. Just so I know exactly how much of my lunch I'm gonna lose when we get there."

* * *

Thanks to Tracey's disturbingly thorough analysis of the Watcher, not to mention the cautious pace Deacon and Preston were forced to take to avoid any straggling members of the flock, it was nearly midnight by the time they arrived at Bunker Hill. The air was moist and heavy, the spicy metallic tang of radiation charging the clouds that loomed above the weary travelers. Preston groaned. "Damn it! I was hoping I'd get to Taffington before the weather turned. Won't be much left to see there if a radstorm hits."

Deacon nodded. "Nothing destroys fingerprints like a good dose of radiation, that's for sure. Well, maybe we'll get lucky."

"No offense," Preston grumbled, "but I try not to rely on luck. It has a nasty habit of turning on me."

"I hear that!" the spy replied. "But hey, there's not much we can do about it now. I mean, we could keep going and try to get there sooner, but if we get caught out in the middle of nowhere when that storm hits...let's just say I'm not a fan of roasted nuts."

"That's fair," the Colonel said. His eyes narrowed. "Damn it! I just wish there was something we could do!"

Deacon bit his lower lip, groaning inwardly as he realized that he was doing it again. Of all the crap he could have picked up from Myra, why this nervous tic? Not only was it massively increasing his lip balm budget, but the slight tingle it left on his lip served as a frustrating reminder of her betrayal...and her rejection. Did it count as rejection if they'd never actually talked about the underlying tension between them? He was pretty sure it still did. Myra had to have known, right? Deacon wasn't the only one who'd felt something between them that night in Salem. He couldn't have been. Her body language, the way her pupils had dilated as her emerald eyes had met his...you couldn't mistake that for anything else. It was intense, and visceral, and Deacon was pretty sure it had scared the crap out of both of them. But he'd made his choices, and she certainly had made hers. And now all that was left of the spark they'd had was a sore lip and a dull ache in his chest that he desperately hoped would ease in time.

The spy sighed in frustration. Preston was right. There was another option, and if Deacon had been traveling alone, he wouldn't have hesitated to use it. But he wasn't alone, or even with another Railroad operative. He was with the de facto leader of the Minutemen, and while the militia hadn't yet turned on the Railroad, tensions between them were higher than Deacon ever remembered them. Now with the massacre Taffington being pinned on the illusive organization, with Preston barely able to convince his people not to launch a counter-offensive...there were some secrets Deacon really couldn't afford to share with the other faction.

At the same time, Preston had a point. If they couldn't get to Taffington before all the evidence was destroyed, Deacon would have no proof that the Railroad was blameless. Furthermore, neither organization would be able to solve the mystery of what had really happened there. Was the attack connected to the Watchers, as Deacon suspected? Or was there yet another threat rearing its head in these dark times, something no one had yet anticipated or lived to warn others about? Letting Preston in on Railroad secrets was a horrible risk. But was it a greater risk than letting whatever was murdering agents and settlers alike wander free?

Deacon cleared his throat. "I...there's another option. But if we use it, you're going to have to trust me."

Preston frowned. "That's probably not going to happen."

"Well, then I guess we'll just have to wait the storm out and hope there's still a Commonwealth left for us to bicker over in the morning," the spy retorted. "Look, I hate this as much as you do. But we really don't have a lot of options here. I might have a way to get us to Taffington quicker, but as old mama Deacon always said, 'you can't just go flashing your ass at strangers and not expect them to kick it.'"

"Your mother sounds like an interesting lady," Preston said with a concerned smile.

"Oh, you'd have loved her," Deacon joked. "Looked just like me. Or did, you know, six or seven surgeries ago. But my point stands. I can't take you down this shortcut unless you let me blindfold you first. Dez would have my hide for it, and she's eyeing a wall to display it on already. I don't really want to be decor, Preston. No matter how much I would really class up HQ."

Preston thought for a moment. "You think we'd be able to beat the storm?" he asked.

"I mean, no guarantees, but it's better than us bunking up here and fighting over who gets to be the little spoon," the spy replied. "I'd win, by the way. I always get to be the little spoon."

"And this isn't some sort of elaborate trap to drag me off and murder me?" the Colonel pressed.

"Pal, if I wanted you dead, I would have just let the Watchers peck out your eyes," Deacon retorted. "I'm frankly offended that you think so little of me! Cuddling is officially off the table!"

"It was never on the table," Preston said with a sigh. "Can't you be serious?"

"I'm always serious about cuddling, Preston," the spy teased. "But fine. I can see that levity isn't getting us anywhere. You want the honest truth? If we don't get to Taffington tonight, I think we're screwed. Whatever's behind this, I think it wants to pit us against each other, take out both of our organizations in one fell swoop. If there is any evidence that supports my story, it won't exist for long. And without evidence, do you think you'll be able to keep your Minutemen from launching an attack on the Railroad?"

Preston shook his head. "I'm barely in charge as it is. If the Minutemen don't act on this, we'll risk losing public support. If that happens, the whole militia's going to splinter, and I know I won't be able to keep all of them in line. This massacre hurt us in more ways than just the loss of human life. What the General and I have been building...it's still really fragile. One gust of wind in the wrong direction, and it'll all be gone. Though sometimes I think I'm the only one who realizes that," he added bitterly.

Deacon nodded. He understood the Colonel's frustration better than anyone. It was easy for the spy to forget sometimes, but Myra's decision to ally with the Brotherhood didn't just put him and the Railroad in a compromising position. The Minutemen were rudderless without a figurehead to rally behind, and though Preston didn't yet seem to realize that Myra had turned her back on them, it was only a matter of time before he found out. Preston was a good soul, if a bit of a naive blowhard, but he wasn't exactly the kind of man who inspired battle cries. The Colonel was smart enough to realize that, which is why he'd chosen Myra to lead the militia in the first place. For all her faults, her story resonated with the common people. On paper, at least, she was a hero, a normal woman driven to take on the big bad boogeyman and free her infant son from the Institute's clutches. She was the face of all the nameless mothers and wives who'd had their loved ones stolen. She was a taste of Old World values to a wasteland hungry for something to stand for. If she hadn't been, well, Myra...if she hadn't thrown it all away in the name of love, or lust, or whatever she and Danse had...

But Myra had made her decision. And now, everyone who cared about her, everyone who supported her and was supported by her had to live with the consequences. Deacon knew that all too well, and it seemed like Preston at least was beginning to understand the trouble they were all in. That made him unpredictable, yes. But it also made the Colonel susceptible to persuasion, and that was something Deacon could use. "I was afraid you might say that," the spy replied. "Look, I get it. Trust me, the Railroad's not exactly the most unified group either. And neither of us is gonna get anywhere if we don't help ourselves...and each other. So here's the plan. We use my shortcut, if you agree to let me blindfold you. I'll do my best to resist the temptation to lead you off any cliffs, cross my heart. And we get to Taffington before dawn, scout around, and solve this damn thing before our factions plunge the Commonwealth into a war no one will win. Fair?"

Preston nodded. "Fair. But you are just joking about the cliffs, right?"

Deacon grinned, pulling the burlap hood from his pack and sliding it backwards over Preston's head. He placed the Colonel's militia hat back on top of the hood with a soft chuckle. "I think I like you better like this," he teased.

"That's not an answer, Deacon!" Preston muttered in alarm, groping out in front of him with anxious hands.

"Easy there!" the spy joked. "Not on the first date!" He took Preston's hand, leading him into Bunker Hill proper. "Watch it, there's some steps here. One at a time. I'll help you." Slowly, the pair made their way into the marketplace, Tracey perched on Deacon's shoulder like a demented parrot. Preston struggled, scraping his feet on the ground every few steps, but as they continued, his confidence gradually increased. By the time Deacon popped open the hatch to the tunnels beneath the monument, Preston was scarcely hesitating. "Okay, now there's a ladder," the spy coaxed calmly. "I'll go down first, and you just keep yourself pressed against me, okay? I promise, I won't let you fall."

"I'm...not reassured by that," Preston muttered.

"Just relax," Deacon said with a sigh, climbing down the first couple rungs. He touched the hem of Preston's pants, and the man jumped slightly in surprise. "Hole's right here," the spy continued. "Sit down on the edge, and I'll help place your foot on the first rung. Just calm down and trust me already."

Preston nodded weakly, his leg shaking as he lowered it into the pit. Deacon grabbed his ankle firmly, placing his foot securely on the rung. The Colonel followed with his other foot, a little more confident this time. Preston sighed in relief as he turned himself around, easing himself down to the next rung. The spy wrapped himself around him, securing the minuteman to the ladder as best as he could. He tried not to think about how close they were. Deacon really wasn't the biggest fan of physical contact, and he'd already had way more of it with Preston today than he was ever going to be comfortable with. Something about being touched just made his skin crawl, like if he was physically close to another human being, they might somehow be able to feel the rotten core that slithered and squelched under his flesh. Or, perhaps even worse, that he might learn more about the other person than he wanted to from the feeling of their body against his. It was a curse, being so damn observant of body language, and physical contact had a way of amping up Deacon's awareness significantly. It made him feel out of control, breathless, and overwhelmed in a way he could never really afford to be.

In the dark decades after losing Barbara, Deacon's phobia of human contact had only grown. It hadn't really been a problem with her, or at least he'd never noticed it. But after Barbara had died, something had turned sour. Whether it was caused by her death or something else from that time he couldn't quite remember, the man he'd been had died. Deacon had felt him die. And all the gentleness in him, all the hope for the future, and certainly all desire for human contact had died with him. At least that was what Deacon had thought.

Until he'd met Myra, the spy had firmly believed that things could never change. But in a matter of months, she'd shattered him like mirror glass. Her touch, her laugh, her all-or-nothing kiss...they'd stripped away his defenses and left him far more human than he was comfortable with. She'd been easy to hold, easier still to cherish, and that had been a revelation of the worst kind at the worst possible time. After what she'd done, after how callously she'd treated him...perhaps Myra's greatest crime against him was reminding him of the man he used to be. She'd restored a little of that poor, naive bastard who genuinely believed in human goodness and a foolish, tormented thing called love, and Deacon wasn't sure he'd ever forgive her for it.

He sighed, trying to clear his mind. For as much as Deacon disliked physical contact, there wasn't much choice right now. He had to keep Preston from falling, or they'd never make it to Taffington before the storm. Like most of the things Deacon did that he disliked, this was for the Railroad. He had to move past his squeamishness and man up, or the whole operation could be lost. So he stepped slowly down from rung to rung, his cheek pressed uncomfortably against Preston's back. Once they reached the bottom, Deacon pulled away, distancing himself from the Colonel as much as possible.

Preston, for his part, hissed in annoyance, groping about in the darkness. "Damn it, Deacon! You can't just leave me here!"

"Relax, you big baby," Deacon chided. "I'll be right back. I just have to close the hatch so no one follows us. Just stand still." With that, he clambered back up the ladder, trying to suppress the nausea in his gut. "Come on, stomach," he muttered to himself. "Not now. We can dry-heave over this later." He swung the hatch closed with a heavy clang, plunging the tunnel into deep darkness. Great. The lights were on the fritz again. Had molerats chewed through the wires again?

"Tracey!" Deacon hissed. "A little light?" The robot whirred to life, uncoiling itself from his shoulder and settling heavily on his head like a helmet, its leather wings folded flat against his ears. Its back opened with a dull click, and a bright beam of light shone forth from the exposed cavity as a flashlight swung into place above its head. "Huh," the spy said with a mixture of concern and wonder. "I wasn't sure that would work. Uh...good job, I guess, Tracey."

The little machine beeped affectionately as it nestled against his scalp. It still creeped him out, but Deacon had to admit that he was starting to grow attached to the horrible monstrosity. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation speaking, but Tracey was growing on him. Sort of.

Progress through the tunnel network was slow, but at least the risk of getting horribly irradiated was somewhat mitigated underground. Deacon led Preston through the damp passageways, his hand clutching the Colonel's limply. No one had better ever find out about this, he thought. Deacon would never live this one down. There were too many people desperate to get back at him for too many pranks and snide remarks of his own. That was the price of being awesome, he supposed.

It was difficult to track the passage of time in the tunnels, and Deacon was already exhausted from the events of the last few days. He'd barely slept while he was trying to catch the Watcher, afraid that if he let his guard down for even a moment, the tables would turn. With every step, he felt his feet drag a little more, and he heaved a weary sigh. Sleep sounded good. It sounded really good.

Preston's grip tightened on his hand. "Don't quit on me," the Colonel admonished. "We can rest when it's all over. Right now, there's innocent lives on the line. We can't stop."

"You're right," Deacon yawned. "But I mean, is it really that important, in the grand scheme of things? People die out here, like, all the time."

Even with the man's face obscured, Deacon could feel Preston's scowl. "You're joking."

Deacon patted the Colonel's shoulder with his free hand "And you're learning. Yes, of course I'm joking. I'm just..." he yawned again, deeper this time. "I'm really worn out, okay?"

"You and me both," Preston replied. "After this is all over, I'm going to take the biggest nap of my life. I won't even care if I'm covered in gore. But that's when this is over. Until then, we have to get to Taffington. We have to find out what really happened there, before things get worse. And I can't get here without you, so..." He pinched Deacon's arm roughly, and the shorter man yelped.

"Okay, okay, I'm awake!" Deacon hissed. "Geez, you don't have to be so rough, you know. Maybe that's why Trailblazer left."

"What?" Preston roared, lunging for him. Deacon sidestepped the blinded minuteman easily, and he stumbled forward. Before Preston could fall on his face, though, Deacon caught him, helping him right himself.

"Sorry. I knew that was a sore spot, but damn, Preston," the spy teased. "You really do have the hots for her, don't you?"

"That's none of your business," the Colonel growled.

"It sure isn't," Deacon agreed. "But you're wide awake now, aren't ya?"

Preston froze for a moment before doubling over in laughter. "You...you really...hah!" He couldn't speak for quite a while, each syllable lost in gasping fits of laughter.

Deacon watched him incredulously. "Wow, you really are wiped, aren't you?" the spy asked, chuckling. "It really wasn't that funny."

"I...heh...I guess I am," the Colonel wheezed. "It's just...things have been really stressful lately. I honestly can't remember the last time I had a good laugh."

"Yeah, me either," Deacon agreed. "Hey. New business idea! How about after we save the world or whatever, we open a new kind of comedy club together. Blindfold the audience before the show, really intensify the experience. Come on, I bet it'd really work."

Preston shook his head. "Open a business with you? No one's that stupid."

"Ok, but hear me out," Deacon protested. "What if everyone was naked? Like, everyone."

Preston laughed, pressing onward without him, using a hand on the tunnel wall to navigate.

"No? Come on, I was just getting to the good part!" Deacon ran to catch up with the Colonel. "Preston? Hey, you're going the wrong way!"

* * *

The first smell that hit Deacon's nostrils as he breathed in the early morning air was the unmistakable stench of burning hair and flesh. He groaned as he clambered out of the drainage pipe and into the gully near Taffington. It was dark, the sort of unnatural occlusion brought on by heavy smoke, and he felt the hairs prick up on the back of his neck. Whatever had really happened at the settlement, there was a bad energy around the place that no mere massacre could conjure on its own. The stench of fear was thick in the air, a rancid undercurrent beneath the choking smoke that time had not yet snuffed out. The people here...they hadn't died as quickly as he'd been led to believe. Something truly foul was at work here. The only light beyond Tracey's beam was the faint glow of embers from where the boathouse had once stood. The rest was shadow. The rest was smoke. The rest was silence.

Deacon pulled Preston's hood off, and the minuteman gasped for fresh air. Finding none, he broke down coughing. "I...ugh, I knew it was going to be bad," Preston wheezed. "But I wasn't expecting this."

"Yeah, remind me to cross Taffington off of my list of top ten vacation spots," Deacon quipped, trying to keep himself calm. It wasn't working. The beat of his heart echoed in his ears as he shuffled forward, scanning the ashy area for clues. There wasn't much to see in the ruins of the old boathouse. A large portion of what looked like the the roof was bobbing just offshore, charred and waterlogged. Of the shed itself, little remained now but a rectangular outline of black soot and a few broken cinder blocks. Most of the wood had either been torched on site or moved elsewhere. From what Preston had said about a pile of bodies, Deacon had a pretty good idea where the missing wood had gone. "At least it looks like we beat the storm," he continued, hoping he sounded optimistic.

"Thank God for small miracles," the Colonel muttered, pulling a torch from his bag and setting it ablaze. His hand shook as he waved the light around the wreckage, the light dancing across the ground in sickening leaps and jerks. Deacon squinted, trying not to focus on the sickening motions. "I wasn't expecting this much smoke still. Visibility's basically shot. We're going to need to move closer if we want to see anything."

"Sometimes big fires like this take a long time to die out completely," Deacon replied, kicking at a twisted hunk of steel that might have once been armor of some kind. "I heard that after the Great War, some places didn't stop burning for years."

"Yeah, but this wasn't caused by nukes, right?" Preston asked, continuing on towards the lawn.

"Probably not," Deacon agreed. "But fire...well, fire's tricky, no matter what caused it. You can't ever trust it, even when you think it's under control. Get too complacent, or make one stupid mistake, and everything burns away." He sighed heavily. "Once it's destroyed everything, you can't ever really get things back again, can you? You can replace things, sure, but...is it ever the same?"

Preston frowned at him. "Have a bad experience with fire, Deacon?"

The spy shook his head grateful that the darkness hid some of his embarrassment. Had he really said that out loud? "Not really. I just...oh, forget it. Let's get to work. This evidence won't uncover itself."

"If there's even anything left," Preston grumbled, shining his light around the charred timbers and scorched earth that had once been a thriving settlement. He clutched Deacon's hood to his face, trying to block some of the smoke. "I really should have brought a gas mask."

"Come on," Deacon said with a sigh. "I've dealt with way worse conditions than this! Did I ever tell you about the time I went skinny-dipping in the old spent fuel pool at the Poseidon plant? The air in there was absolutely rancid. Took weeks for my cough to clear up, but it was so worth it."

Preston rolled his eyes. "Come on, man. There's no way that's true. The radiation would have melted your flesh clean off!"

"Nah," Deacon insisted. "The water wasn't actually that bad. Little chilly, sure. But it was honestly kind of a disappointment. See, this buddy of mine and I had an argument about whether you'd glow after swimming around with all those old fuel rods. I said yes, but..." he sighed. "Only thing that really happened was me losing all my hair."

"You're full of it," the Colonel mumbled, but Deacon could see a little bit of a sparkle in the man's eyes. Finally, he was beginning to relax. Thank God. Deacon was convinced that if Preston had gotten any more anxious, both of their heads would have exploded from the pressure. A little anxiety was good, kept you on your toes. But too much? That was just asking for disaster, and Preston was almost at tornado levels. "I'll go search the ruins of the house."

"I guess that means I've got the lawn," Deacon replied with a secretive smile. Excellent. Things were going according to plan. As the spy crossed the charred lawn, he saw an uneven shape emerge from the smoke, a lumpy pile of misery and soot that needed no introduction. He knew a pyre when he saw one. Deacon crept forward carefully, hoping to avoid drawing Preston's attention for now. He needed to check something before the Colonel started breathing down his neck, and he was hoping that enough remained of the main house to keep the minuteman occupied.

About five feet from the pile of corpses, Deacon froze as he felt a crunch under his feet. With a frown, he knelt down and brushed off the offending object. It was a fragment of bone, only an inch or so across, broken and jagged from where it had been crushed beneath his boot. From the shape, it looked like part of a skull, but it was so tiny and so fragile that it could have almost been from a bird, if not for the shape. He dug through the ash, trying to find more pieces, but the rest had been burnt away or crushed beyond recognition. Besides, in his gut, he already had an idea of what he'd found. Preston had said that there were children here, after all.

Deacon shook off his nausea as he tapped Tracey's back. "Hey. Hop down and look for synth components, courser chips, anything that smells like egghead," he whispered. "Stealth mode." The little robot seemed to nod before creeping quietly into action, clambering down Deacon's head and arm. It stretched its wings before refolding them on its back. Then, in a burst of speed, it lunged headfirst into the pile of corpses. Finding himself without his light, Deacon fumbled through his pack, extracting a lantern and his lighter. The oil lamp sputtered to life, and the spy hooked the handle around one of the broken boards that stuck from the ashy heap like the splintered bones of a giant. It wasn't as bright or focused as Tracey's beam, but it would do.

He cracked his knuckles a little louder than he'd intended before sifting through the remains himself. It was grisly, hot, and unforgiving work, but he was willing to bet that the evidence he needed was somewhere in this pile. Well, as long as it hadn't burned long before he and Preston had arrived on the scene. That was the trouble with Institute technology. It was small, intricate, and oh, so very fragile. Deacon was no stranger to needles in haystacks, but tiny computer chips in rancid corpse piles that had been barbecuing for several days in the July sun? Well, that was a new level of goddamn impossible. Hopefully Tracey would make her terrifying self useful, but the spy knew better than to let a robot do all his work for him. Sometimes, all the sensors in the world couldn't accomplish what human luck could.

The mostly-combusted bodies near the top of the pile had cooled to the touch, but the deeper Deacon dug, the hotter the smoldering pyre became and the more intact the corpses still were. Whoever built the pyre was an amateur. "Huh," Deacon mused to himself. "Turns out stacking bodies in a pile before lighting them on fire isn't the most efficient way to burn people! Who knew?" He hissed in pain as bubbling, savory grease nipped at his exposed skin. It was worse than the time he'd fried bacon with his shirt off, and way, way less sexy. At this rate, he probably wasn't going to be able to enjoy any roasted meat for a while. Not without thinking of tonight's adventure.

The faces of the deceased were mostly marred beyond recognition, both by the flames and, curiously, by some form of sharp implement that had been used to shear away long strips of flesh. Several of the wounds Deacon found looked like those left by the Watchers, but not as many as he'd expected. So the Watchers were in play here, but so was something else. Strange. Were the Watchers working with other Institute synths? But none of this was the Institute's MO. They'd destroyed many settlements over the years, but the scientists preferred energy weapons to cruder methods like fire. This...this was new. Deacon turned over another body, gasping in dismay as he recognized the mutilated face. Caretaker. Shit. If he was gone, chances were the rest of the safehouse had been lost as well. The spy patted the man's pockets down, looking for a tape, a note, anything that might have survived. His pockets were empty, save for a small key that Deacon secreted away.

Deacon tried not to think about the last conversation he'd had with the safehouse leader a few weeks prior. Caretaker had always been the paranoid sort, constantly looking over his shoulder, so when he'd mentioned that a few of the more recent "packages" that had come through Mercer seemed...off, Deacon had dismissed the man's ramblings as more of the same. But what if he was right? What if there really had been something to worry about?

After several agonizing minutes, Deacon finally found what he was looking for, embedded in the partially charred neck of one of the corpses. A courser chip, slightly cracked from the heat, but otherwise in clearly recognizable condition. There probably wouldn't be a lot of surviving information on the device, but its presence at the massacre site was telling. There had definitely been a battle here, and the Institute was almost certainly involved. Curiously, the dead courser wasn't in uniform. What remained of its tattered clothing was much more casual. Even more interesting, whoever had burned the bodies at Taffington had wanted to keep the presence of a courser there a secret. Either the Institute was trying to cause problems between the Railroad and the Minutemen, or someone else was in play who didn't want the courser found for their own reasons. No matter the cause, it was a worrying development.

"Hold it!" a deep voice growled from behind Deacon, and the spy felt his heart leap into his throat. Damn it, he should have been able so sense that someone was behind him! That clinched it. He was absolutely getting rusty.

Deacon gulped, withdrawing his hands carefully from the oozing corpse. "I can explain!" he exclaimed.

"Save it, degenerate," the man snarled. "Desecrator of corpses. Carrion crow. Nothing is sacred to scum like you."

Deacon sighed. One of the Foxes. Well, that explained why he hadn't heard the man sneak up on him. Deacon was pretty fantastic at getting into places without being detected, but he had nothing on Kestrel's boys. "Look, we're on the same side, here," he muttered.

The man grabbed his fist roughly, peeling his greasy, filthy fingers apart with strong, calloused hands. "And that's why you were pocketing this...whatever this is?" Deacon looked up at him with an even, practiced smirk. The newcomer was smaller than he would have anticipated given the man's strength, all sinew and calculated malice. His eyes flashed dangerously in the lantern light as he studied the courser chip. "Another act of sabotage by the Railroad, no doubt," the Fox muttered.

"Yes, because I have so much time to waste groping around in corpse piles just to plant evidence," Deacon replied coolly. "That's a delicate piece of equipment. One that not very many people can decode. I was just making sure it got into the right hands. But," he continued with a heavy sigh, "I suppose your hands will have to do. Just...be careful with it, okay? Not sure you Foxes know what to do with anything more advanced than a spear."

The man's glare intensified. "At least we know how to burn bodies. The Railroad's techniques are laughably sloppy. It's almost as if you have never massacred a village before."

"Well, I'm glad it seems that way, actually," Deacon replied, "because we didn't even massacre this one! Honestly, this wasn't us!"

"Find anything, Deacon?" Preston's voice called out from somewhere in the haze.

"A few of my agents," Deacon called back. "Oh, and one of yours. Can you get over here and call him off, please?"

"What?" Heavy footfalls approached from the lakeshore, the light of Preston's torch drawing nearer. "Oh! You must have met Cato! I'd...actually forgotten he was meeting me here."

The Fox sighed heavily. "This is why I told Inhumata that we should have just taken over the Minutemen when we had the chance," he groaned. "But she wanted to bargain with them..."

"Cato," Preston called, his voice much closer now, "Deacon's a...well, he's not a friend. But he's here helping me find evidence. Let him go."

"He works for the Railroad!" Cato replied, his eyes narrowing. "For all we know, they're responsible for this! And you let him search on his own? You are more of a fool than I realized, and I've always thought you were a fool."

"Enough!" Preston retorted, striding quickly into plain sight next to them. "Don't make me remind you where your loyalties lie. Or should I radio Davis and tell her that you refused to cooperate with me?"

"I am not your dog!" The Fox snarled. "And you will not be able to hide behind Inhumata forever. Do not mistake her truce with you as a sign of our subservience. Not all of us agreed with that decision. Were it not for Renata..." Cato sighed, handing the courser chip to Preston. "This machine-loving degenerate was planning on hiding this from you."

Preston frowned, turning the chip over in his hands before staring daggers at Deacon. "Is that true, Deacon?" he asked.

"Not exactly," Deacon protested. "I was going to take it back to HQ for analysis, see if we could pull a serial number or something from it. I know the Minutemen don't have that capability. But I was going to share whatever information we discovered with you!"

"You honestly think I'm that stupid?" Preston grumbled. "When has the Railroad ever been forthcoming about anything? Isn't that the whole reason we're in this mess in the first place?"

Deacon sighed. The Colonel had a point. But still, it wasn't Deacon's call. Even if Preston could be trusted - and that was a big if - there were too many holes in the Minutemen for information to leak out of. The militia wasn't unified, nor were their ranks heavily vetted. Dez would never okay a free line of communication between their organizations, and frankly, Deacon agreed with her. The risks to all of their lives, to their mission, to the synths that depended on them...it was too great. "I understand that you're frustrated, Preston," the spy said carefully. "But you have to understand, this isn't my call."

"Don't you want to clear the Railroad's name?" the Colonel asked. "I thought we both wanted peace. Without a show of good faith here, Deacon, how am I supposed to believe that the Railroad had nothing to do with this? So far, all you've given me are stories. I need hard evidence, or I might not be able to stop an attack on your people."

The spy nodded. "I know. I...It's for our survival. Dez will understand that. She has to." Deacon stood slowly, trying not to alarm Cato more than was necessary. "I can't tell you everything. But I suppose if you happened to uncover the same evidence I found, that would just be one of those things, right?"

Preston nodded, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Yeah. I just might have seen the same clues and came to an eerily similar conclusion. That's all."

"Isn't it strange how you noticed this courser chip buried in this pile of bodies?" Deacon said, pointing to the tech in Preston's hand. "Almost like the Institute had agents at Taffington...too bad Deacon stole it from you."

The Colonel handed the chip over with a grin. "And can you believe that you found a safe, half-buried in the rubble of the main house?"

"I did, didn't I?" Deacon exclaimed. "I'm so clever. What was inside?"

"Wasn't much in it, but you did find an interesting note," Preston said. He handed a scrap of paper to Deacon, who took it in his filthy hands. There was only one line, written hastily in dark ink.

_ They have eyes to see, but do not see, and ears to hear but do not hear._

"Well, that's ominous," Deacon muttered.

"What do you think it means?" Preston asked.

"I'm not sure," Deacon replied. "For all we know, it could have been in that safe since before the war. I wouldn't read that much into it." He folded the note carefully, tucking it into his bag.

The Colonel frowned. "Too bad you lost the note," he muttered, holding out his hand.

Deacon sighed, handing it over. "That's fair. Did I find anything else?"

"There's a ton of feathers around the house," Preston added. "So I guess your Watchers might have been here after all. You doubt they set the fire, though. Or stacked these bodies."

"Yeah," Deacon said with a frown. "But you're pretty sure that the Railroad didn't do this. I mean, it looks like they lost all hands, too. At least that's your best guess from the bodies you were able to-"

There was a frenzied chirping from the pyre, and Tracey wriggled out from under a blackened arm, her wings torn and chassis covered in grease and soot. Deacon pulled the robot free, scowling at it. He could have sworn he'd told it to be stealthy. "Report," her mechanical voice proclaimed. "Humanoid flesh...found. Avian flesh...found. Synth components...found. Institute...cybernetics...found. Error! Unidentified...substance...found."

Deacon and Preston looked at each other in shock. "Tracey," Deacon said, "what do you mean, unidentified substance? I thought Tinker built you to be able to analyze anything."

"Substance not found in any of my...37...databases," the robot replied almost petulantly. "Sample has been...stored for further study."

The spy sighed. "So that means I guess we won't have all the answers tonight, huh?"

"Affirmative," Tracey chirped, its head drooping. "Heat damage sustained...heavy. Emergency shutdown...activ..." its voice trailed off as the light drained from its creepy eyes.

"Well, that's just great," Preston groaned. "So not only do we still have no idea who massacred these people, but now your robot's dead."

"At least we have a place to start," Deacon replied. "I'll take the sample and the chip back to HQ and get my friends working on an analysis."

Preston nodded. "I'll try to buy you as much time as I can. I wish we'd found more answers, but at least there's enough new questions to throw the Railroad's involvement here into doubt. Just..." he sighed. "Don't just vanish with your findings."

Deacon grinned. "Funny. I was just thinking about how much fun it would be to leave a copy of the report in Myra's old mailbox. That'd be a heck of a prank, don't you think?"

Preston smiled slightly. "Yeah, that'd definitely be hilarious."

The two men shook hands, beaming at each other. It didn't fix things. Deacon knew that. But at least it was a step in the right direction.

Cato glanced between the two of them, confusion and frustration vying for control of his fearsome face. "What are you playing at?" he growled. "What is this?"

Preston clapped the Fox on the back. "I'll explain on the way to Sanctuary. Come on." With that, the militiamen walked away, fading into the hazy dawn like wraiths.

Deacon waited until he could no longer hear their footsteps before heading up towards the house. By this time, the sky was already beginning to lighten as night gave way to a new morning, but he didn't pay the hour much mind. The spy kept low, creeping around the burned-out residence until he came to the old fishing dock behind the building. He glanced around furtively before lying on his stomach, his gloved hand fishing beneath the board for a package he really hoped was still there.

His fingers brushed against something slick, and he struggled to retrieve the oiled canvas sack. With a slight smile, he opened the bag and withdrew a small metal lockbox, its tarnished surface only slightly damp. Deacon fished Caretaker's key out of his pocket, worrying it between his fingers for a moment before trying it in the lock. The box clicked open, revealing a single sheet of paper covered in what appeared to the untrained eye to be gibberish, a jumble of letters. On the back was a series of three numbers: 8, 3, 2.

Deacon grabbed a piece of charcoal from the smoldering wall behind him and sat cross-legged on the dock. Carefully, he counted eight letters in, crossing each one off with his makeshift marker. Then, he crossed off every third letter for the rest of the page. Of the letters that remained, he circled every second letter, until a message was revealed.

_Inside the gates. Tunnels. They know._

The spy frowned. Leave it to Caretaker to be cryptic even in his cyphers, the paranoid old bastard. If he'd taken the time to leave Deacon a message like this, it had to be important. But what did it mean? Had the attack originated from the tunnel system? That didn't make any sense, not unless Caretaker was suggesting...

Deacon tossed the note on the embers, watching it burn away into nothingness. Until he was sure, no one could know about this. With a heavy sigh, he hoisted his pack back on his shoulder and headed south. He'd drop Tracey and the chip off at HQ, but then the spy needed time to think. More than that, he needed the company of someone he could almost trust. If Caretaker was right...well, then that was a far smaller pool than Deacon was comfortable with.

"What else is new?" he muttered to himself, wiping the weariness from his eyes. Sleep, unfortunately, was going to just have to keep waiting.

* * *

**_A/N: Well, that was fun. I haven't gotten to write much of these two together. I think they play off of each other well. Preston's so earnest, and Deacon's, well...Deacon. But at least Deeks is making an effort to help Preston. I mean, with his working relationship with Dez on the rocks, our spy needs all the not-friends he can get, if you ask me. I'm really looking forward to getting MacCready back in the mix as well, since both Preston and Deacon like hanging out with him._**

**_Oh, and how about that evidence? I sure hope that doesn't come back to bite anyone! (Heh heh heh)_**

**_NEXT CHAPTER: Myra and Danse make some startling discoveries about their rescuers. Danse makes Myra a promise._**


	16. The Scientist

**16\. The Scientist**

**_Danse and Myra meet an unexpected ally and are forced to make a terrible choice. Danse makes Myra a promise._**

* * *

Paladin Danse sat on a patch of cool soil, his arms wrapped loosely around Myra's slumbering form. He felt exposed without the comforting embrace of his power armor. That had been one of the first things their masked captors had stripped away, along with their uniforms, weapons, and most of their supplies. The strangers insisted that it was for their protection, that they'd be free to go with all their belongings once Myra had recovered, but Danse doubted it. This wasn't his first time as a prisoner, after all. The simple brown tunic he'd been provided with offered little protection, and though the material breathed well, it wasn't particularly comfortable either.

He gently stroked the silvery hair off of Myra's forehead, his brow furrowing as she murmured his name in her sleep. The Paladin doubted that he'd ever get used to that. He wished with all his might that he'd get the opportunity to do so. She had been in and out of consciousness for the last few hours, but even when she was awake, Myra hadn't been particularly lucid. She seemed confused, unable to focus for longer than a few minutes. Perhaps his joy at her survival had been a bit premature.

Danse studied the network of burns and scars that patterned her pale skin. A retinue of masked women had stripped Myra while the Paladin was being searched, and the cropped grey shirt and long brown skirt she'd been dressed in exposed the remnants of old wounds he'd never known about before. His fingers ghosted over the massive burn scar on her back, her once-smooth skin pocked and warped into strange patterns. Slashes, bullet wounds, and cuts in various stages of healing cluttered her collarbone, her abdomen, her lovely face. Every surface of her skin was splotched in purples and yellows as bruises new and old made themselves manifest on her ivory flesh. The marks and contusions were a testament to her survival, of course. But they were also a stark reminder of how much abuse her body had taken over the last few months. After everything Myra had survived, it was a miracle that she'd made it this far. Perhaps she was simply finally at the limit of what her resilient body could take. Not even the strongest warriors could escape death forever, after all. Myra had been lucky for so long, but that couldn't continue indefinitely.

"How is she?" a nervous feminine voice inquired. Danse's body tensed at the sound, and he instinctively reached for his weapon. His eyes narrowed as his fingers connected with air. Of course. How could he have forgotten? He glanced up in frustration at the figure who darkened the doorway of the tent. A slight woman obscured the opening, watching him through a black, featureless mask. She cocked her head to the side, eyeing the Paladin with amusement. "Do you make a habit of shooting everyone you meet, soldier, or just people who want to help you?"

"If leaving me defenseless and my subordinate in critical condition is your definition of assistance," Danse grumbled, "I suppose I'm well within my right to shoot you. We have been cooped up in this unpleasant prison of yours for nearly five hours without any medical aid or sustenance. If I were in your position, I would have at least had enough courtesy to see that our basic needs were provided for."

The masked woman seemed taken aback by his words. "But you don't need..." She sighed. "I suppose I can ask someone to prepare something."

"What about medical assistance?" Danse insisted, cradling Myra against his chest as tightly as he dared.

"We lost our physician a few weeks ago," the woman murmured. "A group of raiders attacked us as we fled Jamaica Plain, and the rest of us...well, we have other skills. The medical supplies we were able to salvage are too few to spare, I'm afraid."

"That was not the agreement I made with your leader," the Paladin growled. "I came along willingly with the assurance that Myra's injuries would be cared for." He groaned, rubbing his eyes in frustration. "If you can't assist me, I suggest you find someone who can. My patience, such as it is, is wearing dangerously thin. You may have stripped me of my weapons, but that hardly makes me defenseless."

The woman's pale blue eyes swept over him appraisingly from behind her dark mask. "There's no need for violence," she murmured. "Gregory would want me to wait, but..." She glanced at Myra. "I do owe her," she murmured. "Hang on. I'll be back as soon as I can." With that, she retreated from the tent, leaving Danse and Myra alone once more.

The Paladin puzzled over the woman's words. He had expected many things from their captors, but that one of them knew Myra from more than just reputation? That was both unexpected and highly disconcerting. The more he thought about it, the more uncomfortable Danse became. Who were these people? Why did at least one of them know Myra? There were several explanations, but each one of them raised far more questions than they answered.

Were these people settlers that Myra had helped? If that was the case, why the strange masks and secrecy? In Danse's experiment only raiders and other criminal elements used such elaborate disguises. But the mysterious woman had mentioned that they had been attacked by raiders. So what, then? Were they with the Railroad? But given the Railroad's hatred of the Brotherhood, why would a group of agents have kept the two of them alive? No matter how he analyzed the situation, it just didn't make sense.

Myra stirred in her sleep, her fingers tightening around his arm and drawing his attention back to her. Her face was warped by a troubled frown as her eyes scrunched tightly. She moaned unintelligibly, a pained and haunted sound that made Danse's heart ache for her. It was bad enough that she was hurt again. But physical wounds would heal with time. It was her psychological wounds that worried him the most.

From the beginning, Danse had done his best to be there for her. Even in those early days at the Cambridge Police Station, when she had frustrated and confused him so deeply, he had felt an inexplicable need to look after her, to help her in her quest to find her son. So much had happened since those days. So much had changed. Danse had watched with pride and trepidation as Myra had risen to the challenges before her and survived threats that few others could ever hope to overcome. But though she stood victorious time and again, it seemed to him that Myra's emotional state had only continued to deteriorate, and that concerned him.

The Paladin loved her, and he was thrilled to be loved by her in turn. But he couldn't shake the feeling that she was still concealing things from him. Their time together at the cabin had given them a chance to discuss some of what had happened in the Institute, but there was so much about her activities when they'd been apart that Danse still didn't know. Every time he'd tried to bring it up, she'd avoided his questions, distracting him with a playful touch or a soft kiss. He didn't want to think that her deflections were conscious, but given her former allegiance with the Railroad, he had his doubts. Danse wanted to trust Myra. He needed to trust Myra. But what if doing so was a critical mistake?

There was so much about her he still didn't know, even after all these months. All he really had to go off of were his own observations and the stories she shared with him. Perhaps that was how interpersonal relationships always functioned. Did anyone really know other people, or was there a certain point where people just agreed that they understood each other adequately enough? Danse thought about his relationships with the rest of his squad. Could he honestly say that he knew everything there was to know about Rhys? Or Haylen? And yet he trusted them both with his life. So what was different this time? Was it just because he loved Myra that he felt so uneasy, so vulnerable?

He carried Myra's limp body gently over to one of the cots that lined the wall of the hexagonal tent, easing her down carefully. He didn't want to let go of her, not yet, but he knew that holding her as he had been was not going to dramatically improve her condition. She needed rest, and he needed to come up with a plan to get them out of captivity in case an opportunity presented itself. He paced the length of the structure, eyeing anything that could be used as a weapon. A chair leg? A few strips of cloth? There wasn't much to work with, but...

Danse's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the tent's door flapping open once more. This time, it wasn't a blank, dark mask that met him, but a face from the past. The last decade had aged her features significantly, and there was a gauntness in her high-boned cheeks that hadn't been there before, but Danse would recognize the grim-eyes scientist anywhere. "Dr. Li?" he asked, astonished. "What are you doing here?"

Her dark eyes widened as they met his. "Knight Danse? It's really you, isn't it? How long has it been?"

"Seeing as I haven't been a Knight in almost a decade," he replied with a slight smile, "It's been quite some time."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, offering him a firm and almost-friendly handshake. "I heard that the Brotherhood had invaded the Commonwealth, but I certainly didn't expect you to be so far from Maxson's side. The two of you were practically glued together back at the Citadel."

"It's kind of a long story," Danse muttered. "But you haven't answered my question. Why are you here, with these people? Myr...I mean, Knight Larimer said that you had agreed to come back to the Brotherhood. Are you a prisoner as well?"

She shook her head. "Later. Jenny said that there was an emergency, and I'm the closest thing we have to a doctor right now, unfortunately." Her eyes narrowed. "You look fine. A little banged up, maybe, but you'll heal. So who's the patient?"

He gestured to Myra's unconscious form. "I believe you're already familiar with Myra Larimer."

Madison's dark eyes widened. "Shit. She's the one I'm supposed to cobble back together?" The scientist raced over to Myra's side, checking her pulse. "What happened?"

"Our vertibird crashed over the channel," Danse said matter-of-factly, trying to bury his concern in operational precision. "We were attacked by a flock of crows, if you can believe it."

Dr. Li frowned, her shoulders stiffening. "You too?" she asked softly. "Damn. It's getting worse. I don't know...there's got to be a way to stop it."

The Paladin watched her carefully. "To stop what, exactly?"

She shook her head. "Later. First, we have to stabilize Myra. There's..." she sighed. "Let's just say there are a lot of people who will be very upset if anything happens to her." Madison leaned close to Myra's torso, pressing her ear against the younger woman's chest. She listened carefully for a few seconds before leaning back, her brow furrowed. "Well, her breathing's ragged. Heart seems okay, but...has she sustained any critical injuries recently? Before the crash, I mean?"

Danse nodded. "Over a month ago, a Super Mutant threw her against a wall. She's been in recovery, but..."

Dr. Li sighed. "Well, that might be the problem. It's possible that the crash reopened some of her internal injuries. I won't be able to tell without proper equipment, though, and if there's one thing I miss about the Institute, it's the easy access to proper equipment." She carefully peeled back Myra's left eyelid, then her right. "Pupils look okay. No striations of the iris. That's a relief, at least." Madison checked Myra's ears, probing them gently with a finger. "No fluid in the ears...nose looks okay. We can probably rule out catastrophic brain injuries."

"That's a good sign, right?" Danse asked, feeling helpless. He knew basic first aid, of course, but things like this? He wasn't a scribe.

She nodded. "I'm going to feel her ribs, see if anything's broken. Hold her down, Danse. If she wakes up in the middle of this, she might fight back."

"That certainly doesn't sound pleasant," the Paladin replied with an uneasy frown. "Are you certain this is necessary?"

"As I told Jenny," Madison replied with a long sigh, "I'm not a medical doctor. I'm an engineer. My specialty's in the research and development of new systems and technologies, not..." she gestured wildly towards Myra. "...you know, whatever this is. So no, I don't really know what I'm doing. Right now, I'm just ticking off boxes. Troubleshooting. Now, are you going to help, or are you just going to let her flail around and hurt herself more?"

Danse placed his hands firmly on Myra's shoulders, focusing his eyes on the mottled fabric beyond her feet. He couldn't look at her right now, couldn't see the pain he was sure Madison's troubleshooting was going to bring. It was hard enough feeling powerless. Did he really have to help torment the woman he loved as well?

As Dr. Li had suspected, it wasn't long at all before Myra awoke, screaming in agony. She thrashed violently, trying to get away from the scientist's prodding hands. If there were words in her cries, Danse couldn't comprehend them. All he heard was the pain.

"Grab her arms!" Madison cried.

He leaned down, easing his hands along her arms and using his forearms to hold her shoulders in place. His eyes met hers as they stared upwards, wide and unblinking. "Li, you're hurting her!"

"I know!" she retorted. "I'm sorry! Just a little bit more!"

Myra's screams turned to animalistic whines as Madison's probing continued, tears and sweat coating her face like dew. She was pale, so horribly pale, and Danse felt his heart twist at the sight. He kissed her forehead tenderly, trying to soothe the torment in any way he could. "Shhh...Myra, it's all right," he murmured, willing himself to believe it was well. "I'm here beside you. Everything will be fine." She whimpered his name softly, her pain-twisted face relaxing a fraction. He nodded gently, rubbing her arms slightly. "I'm here. I'm not going to abandon you."

Dr. Li frowned as she watched their interaction. "You always were softer than you wanted people to think, Danse," she said. "A shame more members of the Brotherhood aren't as kind. I never would have left if that was the case."

"Are you finished?" Danse said, a little harsher than he intended to.

"For now." She leaned away from Myra, her eyes troubled. She stood, walking to the other side of the large tent. "Let's let her rest. Come over here."

Danse nodded, standing up. Myra's eyes shot open wide, and she grabbed at his hand, clinging to him. "No...wait..."

"Myra, I'm not going far," he reassured her. "Please, just rest for now."

She nodded weakly, squeezing his hand tightly for a moment before releasing it. "I...I'm scared."

"I know," he replied softly. He was scared too. Terrified, even. Whatever was wrong with her, if it was something that Dr. Li wasn't even comfortable discussing in front of her... The Paladin let out a long, shaky breath. No. Now wasn't the time to panic. All he could do for Myra now was to stay calm and handle whatever was happening with precision and decorum. He needed to stay strong.

Madison frowned at him as he approached her, watching him with calculating eyes. "As I'm sure you've gathered," she whispered, "there's some pretty serious problems with her abdomen. Her ribs are intact, at least, so that means it's an organ problem."

"That's...less than ideal," the Paladin replied with a frown.

She nodded. "That's an understatement. From the placement of the injury, I'd say it's probably her spleen. If we're lucky, it's only enlarged, and she'll have to avoid physical activity for a while."

"What happens if we're not so fortunate?" Danse asked, concerned.

Madison's brow furrowed. "It could be ruptured. In which case, if we don't find a way to repair or remove it soon, she'll die of blood loss. Frankly, even if we do remove it, she still might die. The Commonwealth's not exactly flush with sterile environments. Even if we convinced Gregory to move Peregrine to one of the old clinics, the risk of infection out here is...well, it's astronomical."

The Paladin's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about? Who are Gregory and Peregrine?"

Dr. Li smiled slightly at his question. "They really haven't given you the best welcome, have they? I'm sorry." She gestured around. "You're in Peregrine. It's a nomadic settlement, moves from place to place fairly regularly. Gregory's...well, he's the guy in charge, I guess." she sighed. "Look, this isn't important right now. Myra's well-being is. I'm sure you agree."

Danse nodded. "Absolutely." He looked over at Myra, her half-closed eyes unfocused as she smiled weakly at him. He wanted to believe that she was going to get better, that her injuries were minor, but... "We have to save her, Li. I can't..." he cleared his throat awkwardly. "She's too valuable of an asset."

Dr. Li chuckled. "And how long have you and this 'asset' been together, Danse? I'm not an idiot. I saw that kiss earlier. Unless Brotherhood regulations have changed dramatically over the last few years, that's not how you take care of a mere asset."

He blushed awkwardly. "Not long. Things just...developed recently."

"Good for you, Danse!" she said, patting him on the back. "I'm glad you finally found someone, even if she's..." Madison thought for a moment. "There is one option. I don't like it, and frankly, I won't blame you if you say no, but..."

"What is it?" the Paladin asked.

"Before we left the Institute," the scientist explained, "I installed a teleportation chip in Myra's Pip-Boy. If we activate it, it'll take her back there. You wouldn't be able to go with her, and I sure as hell can't go back even if I wanted to. But they have expert doctors there, clean facilities. It'd be easy for them to patch her up."

"No!" Myra groggily exclaimed from her cot. They both turned to look at her, startled. "I...I won't...go back," she managed, her emerald eyes wide. "I...no..."

"It might be the only way to save your life!" Madison retorted. "I don't like it either. They might not let you leave again. But..."

"No!" Myra insisted, whimpering. "I'll...I'll be okay. I promise. Don't...don't make me go back there!"

Danse ran back to her side, dropping to his knees beside her bed. He cupped her cheek awkwardly, trying to comfort her. "Myra, it's okay. No one is going to make you do anything you aren't prepared to do." He looked up at Dr. Li, his eyes fierce. "Isn't that correct?"

Madison nodded. "Of course." She approached the bed as well. Danse noted with alarm that her left hand was hidden behind her back. What was she up to? "Myra, I know you and I haven't known each other long," she soothed, "but you have to know that I wouldn't even suggest sending you back if there was a better option. If I had the resources here...but I don't. And without your spleen, you'd be at even more risk of infection. We can't risk it. You have to be in a sterile environment, or you're going to die. Do you understand?"

Myra shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears. "No...please..."

The Paladin brushed the hair from Myra's face. "Myra, it's okay. I'm not going to let anyone harm you. No matter what, I'm going to look after you."

"I..." she smiled up at him. "I love you...so much. You're...so good..."

"I love you too," Danse exclaimed, stroking her cheek. "I regret that we haven't had more time. Once you're better, I'll do whatever I can to remedy that."

Myra's hand trembled weakly as she wrapped it around his. It was so easy to forget how small and slender her fingers were until she held his hand like this. She was only able to hold on to three of his fingers, but Danse didn't mind. "I...just want to be...with you," she murmured. "Forever. Is that...okay?"

He nodded, his eyes welling with tears. As incredible as it was to hear her say those words, the thought that forever might end in a matter of days was almost too much to bear. "That's everything I want," he agreed. "I promise, when this is all over, we'll be together for as long as you wish. But first, you have to recover. Is that fair?"

She sighed softly, her eyes drifting in and out of focus. "What if...I don't?"

Dr. Li placed a hand firmly on Danse's shoulder. "We don't have time to waste. She's fading fast. We have to assume that her spleen's ruptured at this point. Either let me teleport her or let her die."

"No!" Danse replied firmly. "Neither of those outcomes are acceptable. We have to come up with another solution."

"There is no other solution!" the scientist insisted. "We are out of time!"

"I...I can't go back," Myra murmured, her cold, clammy cheeks flecked with tears. "Don't make me...I...want to stay..."

Madison shook her head. "I'm sorry. We can't risk letting her die. She's too important." With a flourish, she produced a syringe of Med-X, driving the needle into Myra's arm and pressing down the plunger in one swift motion. Myra gasped in shock, her eyes wide with betrayal as they locked with Danse's.

"I...no...why?" she murmured as her consciousness faded.

Danse glared up at the scientist, his heart racing. "What the hell, Li? You can't just arbitrarily decide to intervene! Myra made it clear that she doesn't want to return to the Institute!"

"We don't have a choice, Danse!" she reprimanded. "Look at her! She's dying! Do you really want to just sit on your ass and let her go without a fight?"

"I..." he sighed. "I suppose not. But how can we violate her free will in this manner? It's not our decision to make!"

"Yes it is!" Madison cried. "Or at least it's mine. You aren't the only one with a vested interest in keeping Myra alive, you know. The Institute -"

"And that's another enigma!" Danse interrupted. "What happened in the Institute, Li? Why is Myra so terrified of the idea of returning there?"

"I..." Madison sighed. "I'm not sure it's really my place to say anything. If she isn't ready to talk about it...She had to have confided in you somewhat, given your relationship. How much do you already know?"

"I know that the man you call Father is her son. And I know that whatever she encountered in the Institute, Myra is determined to destroy it."

Madison nodded, reaching for Pip-Boy on Myra's wrist. "I wish she'd reconsider. There's a lot of bad in the Institute, that's certainly true. But there's a lot of good there as well. We...they are making some incredible innovations that could really benefit all of humanity. Hardier, healthier food sources. Clean power. Ways to reclaim humanity from the ashes, just like we started in the Capital Wasteland. You saw what clean, abundant water could do for people, Danse. Imagine something even better, a way to ease the suffering of thousands. We can't just blow that up, can we?"

"It hardly matters, if the Institute insists on terrorizing humanity with their synths," Danse replied coldly, catching her arm. "The Institute has crossed too many boundaries, has broken too many ethical laws. They and any technology they possess cannot be trusted. Humanity has to be protected from such abuses, even if it means losing something of value along the way. The Brotherhood of Steel cannot allow the synth threat to continue unchecked. Myra understands that."

Dr. Li stared at him, her eyes alight with an unreadable emotion. Was she studying him? What for? "Do you truly believe that synths are such a threat to humanity?" she asked, trying to wrestle out of his grip. "Are you certain?"

"They are abominations, Li," he replied almost automatically, his grip tightening on her wrist. "An abuse of technology that can only lead to suffering. Man and machine were never meant to become one."

"What if you're wrong?" she insisted. "What if synths are just the next step forward for humanity? That's what many members of the Institute believe. In their eyes, the only way to save mankind is to redefine what it means to be human. You call that unethical. But is it, really? Or do you just have too narrow a definition of what it means to be human?"

"I think my definition is suitable," Danse countered. "But you're deflecting. Tell me what happened in the Institute. What happened to Myra? I firmly believe that there's more to the story than what either of you have led me to believe, and I'm tired of being brushed aside. I can't assist her if I don't know why she's suffering!"

Madison sighed, no longer fighting him. "Fine. I'll tell you what I know. But I'm afraid that if you're looking for easy answers, I don't have any."

"I'll take difficult answers over nothing," the Paladin replied. "I won't let you send her there unless I know why she's so afraid. I owe her that much. If she would really rather succumb to her injuries than return to the Institute, there must be a valid reason."

The scientist nodded. "Okay. Well, from what I observed, Myra had a fairly difficult adjustment to life in the Institute. Frankly, I don't blame her. I remember what it was like for me when I first got there. Coming from the surface, it's...jarring. How bright everything is. How clean. And the people there? They aren't really used to dealing with new faces. It can be a real challenge, trying to get past their prejudices. I was there for almost a decade, and a lot of the scientists still didn't trust me because I wasn't born there." Madison frowned. "It was harder for her, I think, because she was basically a celebrity. Everyone had an opinion on 'Father's mother,' from the division heads down to the lowest-ranked synths. Some people had a hard time seeing her as anything more than a relic of the past, a curiosity. Others, well...they were kind of obsessed."

Danse frowned. "Obsessed?"

"Yeah. Dr. Holdren, the head of Bioscience, was particularly weird about her being there. He was always watching her, following her around and stuff. I remember one day, he sat on a bench across from her in the cafeteria and then just watched her eat. He took notes, I'm pretty sure. I never asked Myra how she felt about it, but as an outside observer, his fixation on her was...embarrassing. Intense. I couldn't quite get a handle on it. Granted, Myra's very charming. But Clayton's behavior was unusual, even for him, and definitely unwarranted as far as I'm concerned. I think Myra found the whole thing a little overwhelming."

The Paladin's eyes narrowed as a familiar shadow clutched at his chest. "That is extremely disturbing, even for the Institute. Are there no depths of depravity to which they won't sink? Next you'll tell me that he was running tests on her while she was asleep."

Madison shook her head. "Honestly, I don't think Clayton would do that. He's awkward as hell, but he's a good man." She chuckled slightly. "Guess that's the type of guy she attracts."

"I don't believe I know what you're implying," Danse grumbled. He thought for a moment. "Besides this Dr. Holdren, was there anyone else who showed an interest in her? Anyone who might have caused her harm?"

"Well, Dr. Binet from Robotics was also in her little fan club," the scientist replied. "But he was way less forward about it. Other than that..." She frowned. "Wait. No, I know why she doesn't want to go back."

"Care to enlighten me?" the Paladin asked.

"I'll bet she had a few bad run-ins with Dr. Ayo, the acting head of the Synth Retention Bureau. I'm pretty sure he thought she was a Railroad spy."

Danse froze. "T-that's ridiculous," he sputtered.

Madison eyed him analytically. "Is it? Hmm...well, you know her better than I do. But I'll bet that's it. I can't really blame her. Ayo scares the crap out of me, too, and I don't startle easily." She sighed. "Now, are you done? We need to send her back before her body breaks down any more, or even the Institute won't be able to fix her."

"If she's not going to be safe -"

"She's not safe here, either!" Dr. Li snapped, glaring at him. "Danse, please. Either she's at risk there or she's dead here. And like I said, she's too important to die here. I can't let that happen. You're either gonna have to kill me or let me push that button. So what's it going to be?"

The Paladin looked at Myra's limp form, his heart sinking. Li was right. No matter what Myra wanted, Danse wasn't ready to let her go. If that meant turning her over to the Brotherhood's greatest enemy...so be it. "Very well," he mumbled, releasing his grip on the scientist's arm.

"Finally!" huffed Madison, pressing a button on the Pip-Boy.

Danse watched in dismay as the woman he loved was absorbed in a flash of bright blue light before his eyes for the second time. And for the second time, he begged whatever power was listening that she would return to his side alive and well.

* * *

**_A/N: Man, it's good to get back to Danse! I missed him. Poor guy just cannot seem to catch a break, though. He and Myra are finally a couple, but are they ever going to be able to enjoy their time together again? And what's going to happen to Myra now that she's back in Institute hands?_**

**_I swear, one of these weeks I'll actually update on a Tuesday again! I was planning on it this time, but the plot bunnies threw a wrench in things. I swear, I'm never going to finish this thing if characters don't stop wanting their own arcs, but I just can't say no to a plot thread when it calls me so loudly! So...guess we're getting more Institute stuff._**

**_NEXT CHAPTER: MacCready gets more than he bargained for when he gets pulled into Deacon's business. Also, THE SILVER SHROUD!_**


	17. The Secret Streets

**17\. The Secret Streets**

**_MacCready takes up the Shroud, only to run into a familiar face._**

* * *

MacCready grinned widely, flexing and unflexing his weakened arm. The new brace was far lighter than the prototype Myra had asked Sturges to make. It was made of lean metal strips that were connected by an intricate series of hinges and springs to provide support as well as a superior degree of flexibility. It extended up most of the length of his lean arm, from his palm to just below his shoulder, and was held in place with a set of soft leather straps that were far easier to adjust than the ones on his old brace. Unlike Myra's design, this new brace was armored as well, the inner structure covered in small, thin scales of hammered steel which were bound together with leather strips. The sniper rotated his arm back and forth, admiring the way the scales glistened under the soft lights of _The Memory Den_.

A kind-eyed ghoul stood beside him, watching him with nervous anticipation in his eyes. "Do you like it?" he asked softly.

MacCready nodded. "This is awesome, Kent! Where'd you learn to make armor like this?"

Kent shrugged. "When you love comics as much as I do," he replied, "you pick up some skills here and there. I might not be much of a fighter. Not like you. But I know a thing or two about costume design. Speaking of, do you wanna try the rest of it on now?"

The sniper eyed him carefully. "Are we really doing this? I mean, I know I agreed to be the Shroud already, but I was drunk off my as...um, off my butt when I said it was a good idea. The streets need to be cleaned up. I'm not denying that. But you know this isn't make-believe, right, Kent? What we're doing...it could get real dangerous."

The ghoul sighed. "You're right, MacCready. But darn it, I'm tired of just watching everything fall apart out there! I've tried to give people hope by playing these old radio dramas, but it's not enough. The Commonwealth needs a hero. Now more than ever. And I'm ready to do my part to make that happen." He walked over to his shelf full of memorabilia, picking up a small box emblazoned with the Mistress of Mystery's seal. Kent opened it carefully, reverently, pulling a copper pocket watch from within and holding it up to the light. "Shannon Rivers herself sent me this, back before the War," he murmured. "She was the voice of the Mistress, you know. Nicest woman." Kent pressed on the top of the watch and it opened with a soft click. The ghoul gently ran his finger over the inscription inside. "_To Kent Connolly, a hero at heart_. I never have quite lived up to that. Not like she did. Shannon was never content just watching the world destroy itself, either. She fought back, you know, after the bombs fell. Bravest woman I ever met." His eyes misted over as he ran his hands over the watch chain, exploring each link with distracted fingers. "I wish I'd been able to help her, Frank, and their girls more. A real shame, what happened to them."

MacCready frowned. "What happened?"

"They died," he replied simply. Kent closed the watch, returning it to its place. "It was a long time ago. I...It doesn't matter. What matters is that we have a chance to really help people. And Shannon would have said that that was worth any risk."

"Well, fortunately for us, I'm the one who's going to be doing most of the fighting," the sniper said. "So yeah, okay. If you're really sure that this is what you want, let's get a look at this costume you've put together."

"Yes!" Kent cried, grabbing a bundle of cloth from the table next to his bed. "I really think you're going to like it! I tried my best to recreate the iconic Silver Shroud costume while taking your notes into account."

MacCready held up a long black leather duster, admiring it. While the Silver Should had traditionally sported a trench coat, the duster had several major advantages, particularly when it came to durability and shooting. Like MacCready's brown coat, it was sleeveless on one side, which allowed greater flexibility of movement as well as room for his brace. The dark hide was decorated simply with silver buttons and gray lapels that matched the original costume. It was a stunning piece of craftsmanship, and the sniper could hardly wait to try it on.

First, however, came the undershirt. It was a simple black sleeveless shell, cut just below the belt of the black trousers that went along with it. As MacCready slipped the shirt on, he noticed that it was a little heavier than he'd been expecting. "What is this?" he asked.

Kent beamed at him. "Ballistic weave! Don't ask me how I got it. That alone set us back a week. But hey, the protection's worth it. I took the liberty of lining the coat with it, too, so you should be pretty safe."

"As long as whoever's shooting me is too stupid to go for head shots, yeah," the sniper quipped. He was honestly impressed. For a guy who'd never fired a gun in his life, Kent was surprisingly knowledgeable about combat.

"The fedora might not be armored," the ghoul continued, holding up a black, brimmed hat with a gray band, "but I did put some steel in the brim, like in one of those old spy movies. You know, just in case. It's not sharp or anything, but you could knock someone out with it if you throw it hard enough."

"Kent," MacCready said with a chuckle, taking the fedora, "you're either the craziest bas...uh, guy I've ever met, or you are a certified genius! How the heck did you come up with that?"

"Like I said," Kent replied sheepishly, "I really like comic books. People always gave me a hard time about it, but hey, everyone's allowed to like what they like, right?"

MacCready nodded. "Especially when it leads to stuff like this." He looped the long, silvery scarf around his neck, adjusting it to fit snugly under the duster. "Fits like a dream. But how does it look?"

The ghoul's eyes widened. "Wow," he gasped. "That...I..." he chuckled warmly. "Yeah, you're the Silver Shroud, all right." He held up a dingy hand mirror. "See for yourself."

The sniper gazed in the mirror, his eyes widening as he studied his reflection. It wasn't just because he looked damn good in the costume, however. MacCready hadn't had much of an opportunity to look at himself in a while, and he was startled to see how much the last few months had aged him. His bright blue eyes were rimmed with heavy dark bags that gave him a half-dead appearance, and while his youthful skin was still relatively wrinkle-free, there was a gaunt hardness to his features that the sniper didn't quite recognize. Every challenge, every setback was reflected in his face, from the scraggly scruff that painted his narrow chin to the world-weary droop in his brow. Things had been harder than MacCready liked to admit, but his features weren't fooling anyone.

Still, the new outfit helped. Between the slick dark duster that elongated his body to the wide-brimmed fedora that shadowed his eyes, he looked remarkably badass, and that was enough to put a smirk on his wasteland-weathered face. "Damn," he murmured. "That's one heck of a wardrobe update."

Kent grinned, patting him on the back. "You really look like you just stepped right off the page, Mac! The bad guys aren't gonna know what hit 'em!"

MacCready flinched away from the contact. "I'm a sniper. The bad guys never know what hit 'em."

The ghoul chuckled. "Well, I guess it's doubly true now. Here," he continued, handing MacCready a long metal case. "I've got one more thing for you. I mean, it's not authentic, but I thought you'd be happier with this than a submachine gun."

The sniper opened the box, laughing gleefully at the contents. It was an old hunting rifle, kitted out with a long scope and painted a brilliant silver. He held the gun to his shoulder, checking the scope and its heft. It was lighter than his old standby, due to a hollow stock as well as a few other adjustments that he couldn't quite put his finger on. And on top of that... "Kent, is this plasma-infused?" he asked, startled.

Kent nodded. "I asked KL-E-O to help me build the best sniper rifle I could. You won't find another like this anywhere. You should'a seen the look she gave me when I asked her to make it as light as possible. Figured it was worth it, though. The less work that arm of yours has to do, the smoother your aim'll be, right?"

MacCready knelt by his old rifle, removing the strap carefully. He felt a twinge of sorrow coupled with nostalgia as his fingers played through the braided strap. It was one of the few things he still had from when he was a child, braided by hand by Princess, of all people. She'd gifted it to him on his 14th birthday, since the old leather strap on his rifle was worn nearly through. Back then, it had been a bright pink, the material repurposed from one of the insufferable girl's many dresses, but thankfully, the fabric had faded with time and use to a dingy brown. Thank God Princess hadn't lived to see how poorly he'd maintained the damn thing. With a soft sigh, he latched the strap to the new rifle, swinging it up onto his back. "Well, I guess I'm ready," he said. "Who's the target?"

Kent shook his head. "It's not gonna work like that, Shroud," he replied. "I'll give you directions over the radio once you're out in the city. I want everyone to know who you're going after and why. The Silver Shroud might strike from the shadows, but our job is to bring the bad guys out into the light."

MacCready sighed. "So you're gonna get me killed by telling people where I'm going, is that it?"

The ghoul frowned. "I guess it does put you at a little more risk. But I think it's important that people know what you're doing. If you were just an assassin, Mac, that'd be one thing. But we're trying to build more than a pile of bodies here. We're trying to give Goodneighbor hope, again. A common cause to reunite under. And we can't do that in secret."

The sniper thought for a moment before nodding resignedly. "Fine. We'll do it your way, Kent. But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

"That's fair," Kent replied. He patted the brim of MacCready's fedora. "I put a radio transmitter right above your left ear. It's quiet, so it shouldn't give your position away unless you're literally sitting on someone's shoulders."

MacCready chuckled. "Oh man, could you imagine how much that'd freak a guy out, though? That'd be amazing!"

"Well, if you can pull it off, go for it," Kent replied. "Heck, the audience would eat it up!" His smile softened as his eyes met the sniper's. "Seriously, though. Be careful. There's no extra points for style if you end up in a box."

The sniper nodded. "Trust me, Kent, I've got no interest in dying today. Too much unfinished business." He patted the ghoul lightly on the shoulder before breezing past him into the Memory Den lobby, then out into the tumultuous streets of Goodneighbor.

Kent hadn't been kidding about tensions being high in the free city. Something big was brewing. MacCready could almost taste it. Goodneighbor had never been the most friendly place, in spite of being so accommodating to those who had nowhere else to go. It was the sort of place people just kind of ended up, one way or another, though usually the circumstances that brought people to the old red light district were pretty darn awful. It had always been a place where no one asked questions, where people kept to themselves. But now...now people didn't just seem to look away from each other. They turned from each other with fear and contempt in their eyes. There was an uneasy miasma of hate that billowed up from the sewers in foul puffs of decay, coating the town in suspicion. MacCready had lived in Goodneighbor for a good long while, and he'd never seen the place so on edge, so ready to consume itself. It bothered him in ways he didn't have words for.

Maybe it really was time for someone to stand up, to remind the...well, not exactly good people, but decent enough people that there was something still worth fighting for. MacCready never thought that it'd be him leading the way, but hell, a lot had happened in the past year that he never would have seen coming. He never thought that he'd finally be free from the Gunners. He'd never thought that he'd ever be a member of the Minutemen, honorary or otherwise. And, most of all, he'd never thought that he'd find a group of people who really mattered to him, whether or not that feeling was reciprocated. If no one else was willing to fight the good fight, well, it might be one of his stupidest decisions, but that didn't make it the wrong one.

"Well, look who it is!" one of the ghouls on the Neighborhood Watch jeered as MacCready slipped past him. "It's the Silver Shroud! Oooh! I'm so scared!"

"Those who fight for justice have nothing to fear from the Shroud!" the sniper shot back in his best approximation of the legendary hero's voice. He cringed as he head himself. Yeah, this was definitely not one of his brightest plans. The laughter from the guard followed him around the corner towards the square. It was bad enough when people took him halfway seriously. Now, no matter how noble his intentions, MacCready was a damn laughing stock. Hopefully, it wouldn't be for long.

The radio above his ear clicked to life, Kent's voice coming in soft and clear. "_Listeners, I've got another special report! The Silver Shroud's back in Goodneighbor, and he's looking to clean up the streets! Don't believe me? Why don't you ask Wayne Delancy how justice tastes? That's right, you can't, 'cause the Shroud got to him a couple weeks back. You all heard the rumors._" There was a brief pause and the shuffling of papers. Kent cleared his throat. "_Everyone's heard by now how that creep Lazy-Eye Jones killed those three runaways from Diamond City just outside of our gates. Guy thought he could get away with bragging about it down at the_ Third Rail. _But the Silver Shroud knows what you did, Jones. And he's comin' for you_."

MacCready clenched his fist. Well, that did it. Laughing stock or not, there was one thing he'd never had the stomach for, and that was violence against children. If this Lazy-Eye Jones had really murdered those kids...he charged into the _Third Rail_, his trigger finger itching for a fight.

Ham the bouncer caught him at the threshold. "We don't want any trouble, Shroud," he stated sternly in his raspy voice. "Jones ain't here. Last anyone saw, he was headed to the back alley for a piss. Why don't you look for him there?"

MacCready's eyes widened as Ham looked through him. He'd known the old ghoul for years, had spent months holed up in the Third Rail, seeing him every day. Could he really not recognize the sniper just because he was wearing a new outfit? Suddenly, Deacon's terrible disguises made a bit more sense. The spy had always said that a costume didn't have to be convincing. Most people just saw what they wanted or expected to see. They were too oblivious or just too frightened to look too closely behind the mask. MacCready had always thought that Deacon was full of it. But maybe not. At least not in this instance.

"Your commitment to justice has not gone unnoticed, citizen!" the sniper declared. "The Silver Shroud thanks you for your assistance!"

"Yeah, whatever buddy," Ham replied as MacCready stalked away into the night, rolling his dark eyes. "Geez. This town gets weirder every day."

* * *

MacCready crept across the rooftops, edging towards the alley behind the _Third Rail_. According to Ham, the child-killer he'd been contracted to kill was somewhere down that dank and twisted corridor. Even though MacCready had the sniper's advantage, he was still wary. With Kent basically broadcasting his every move, it was going to be hard to get the drop on Jones, especially if the guy was half as clever as he thought he was. Still, intelligence was a rare trait among the criminal underbelly, and MacCready was very, very good at his job. He stretched out on an uneven fire escape, his new silver sniper rifle already in place. Slowly, he scanned across the alleyway, looking for any sign of the murderous scum below.

The alley was unusually empty, only a dumpster and a few filth piles lining its cobblestone path. MacCready couldn't recall ever seeing it so deserted before, but then again, it wasn't usual for people to receive prior warning of a gunfight. Chances were that most everyone who was able to had already made their way indoors, or at least out of this particular street. As MacCready watched, he saw a ragged figure emerge from around the corner, their face concealed beneath a battered old cap. He exhaled softly, readying the shot. He had to be sure, but like hell he was going to miss if this was his target.

Suddenly, the man looked directly at him, a wide grin splitting his filthy face. He waved up at MacCready. "Hey! Shroud! I'm a huge fan!"

The sniper paused. He knew that voice. "Do not interfere with the Silver Shroud's vengeance!" he shot back. "If you are an innocent man, why have you come to this...uh...this alley?" he finished weakly. Damn. He needed to work on that.

"Innocent? Well, I guess it depends on who you ask," the lowlife purred, looking the sniper over with a bemused smirk on his face. "You know, Mac, if you've gotten into the whole costumed crusader thing, I've got a lot of outfits you could borrow."

MacCready would know that smirk anywhere, not to mention the dark shades that concealed the man's eyes. "Deacon?" he asked, confused. "You're not really who I was expecting." He lowered his rifle, sitting up with a low groan. Well, this certainly complicated things. Deacon brought a lot of baggage with him, but an easy problem to solve was never one of them.

"Ah, yeah. Your bad guy," the spy mused. "Don't worry, he's taking a little Med-X nap behind the dumpster." His smirk faded somewhat. "We need to talk, pal. Can I come up?"

MacCready shrugged. "It's not like I own the rooftops. I'd be rolling in caps by now if I did."

Deacon snorted, hauling himself up the fire escape. MacCready noticed that the spy looked a little stiff. Had he gotten himself hurt again? The sniper felt a surge of concern in his gut, which he quickly stomped back down. It wasn't really his concern what Deacon had gotten himself into, was it? The spy could take care of himself, and it was better for everyone if he did so. Still, MacCready couldn't quite shake his unease as he looked over Deacon's ragged appearance. He was dressed mostly in torn fabric like any Goodneighbor drifter, but the dirt that coated his exposed skin...was that ash?

"What could you possibly want from me?" MacCready shot back. "Last time we talked, you made it clear that I should stay far away from your business. So what's changed?"

The spy watched him for a moment, his mouth open slightly like he was on the verge of speaking for a few beats before he finally did. "People are dying, Mac. I don't..." Deacon sighed. "I don't have the luxury of keeping you clear of things. Not any more."

"People die every day," the sniper muttered. "Not a whole hell of a lot I'll be able to do that you can't." He knew it was petty, but damn it, he was tired of being the last person to know what was going on. Deacon had always kept things from him, and that was fine. It was the nature of their relationship. But lately, it felt like he was just an afterthought to everyone he considered a friend. Well, everyone except for Kent, but the nervous ghoul certainly came with his own set of problems. At least Deacon had never manipulated him into dressing up as an Unstoppable. Strange how many people in MacCready's life seemed determined to do so, now that he thought about it. Did that say more about him, or more about the sorts of people who attached themselves to him?

"That's fair," Deacon conceded. "But this isn't just your run-of-the-mill raiding party, or even the standard Institute bogeyman bullshit. What's going on is weird. Really, really weird. And I'm saying this in a world where six-legged deer exist. I need a sniper, Mac. Someone who notices the small things, who can help me make sense of what we're facing. 'Cause honestly, it's pretty nuts."

MacCready sighed. If Deacon was being sincere, that meant that things were way worse than he was letting on. "You're paying me this time, though, right?"

Deacon grinned. "The whole superhero thing's not that lucrative, huh?"

The sniper nodded. "You know how hard it is to make decent caps when everyone assumes you work for free now? I swear, you give someone their caps back one time..."

The spy tossed him a small leather pouch that clanked satisfactorily as it landed in MacCready's palm. "Don't get too excited," Deacon said as MacCready's face lit up. "It's not like I'm swimming in caps either. Could you imagine? That sounds really uncomfortable. All those sharp metal edges..." he shuddered. "But I want to solve this thing. It'll be better for all of us if settlements and safehouses stop getting torched, right?"

MacCready frowned. "Wait. I heard something about that. Whole settlements, burned to the ground?"

Deacon nodded. "Yeah. I'll be honest with you, it's really not great. No one's quite sure why this is happening, which is the scary thing. Raiders usually like to take credit for massacres like this, and the Institute likes to think that they're way more subtle. The Minutemen currently seem to be blaming the Railroad, and who really knows what the Brotherhood's hot take is. They've got their heads so far up their own power armor that the might not have even noticed."

"Yeah," MacCready agreed. "They're a little bit occupied with their giant death robot right now."

Deacon froze, looking at him with a blank expression on his face. "Their...what?"

"Oh, so you didn't know either?" MacCready chuckled bitterly. It was oddly satisfying, knowing something that Deacon didn't, but his joy at having something to hold over the spy's head was tempered significantly by the still-fresh sting of betrayal. "Apparently My's been so busy helping them with their death machine that she's stopped caring about the rest of us."

"I really, really hope that's a euphemism," Deacon groaned. "Not that that's much better. Because if you're talking about Liberty Prime, that's...oh, that's really not good."

"Yeah, no shi...um, exactly," the sniper continued. "So I'm not the only one who might be just a teensy bit worried that she's gone off the reservation, here, right? I mean, last I heard from her, she was going to the Institute, and then she was gonna help me with something personal. My's always been there for me before. So why's she blowing me off to plunge elbow-deep up Maxson's tightly clenched backside all of a sudden?"

Deacon sighed. "That's probably my fault. A little."

MacCready eyed him carefully. "What did you do?" he asked softly, his eyes focused on the spy's glasses.

"That's...classified," the spy retorted, a faint blush painting his cheeks. "I mean, we were on a mission when it happened, so I can't really tell you."

MacCready watched him squirm, curious and more than a little unnerved. It wasn't like Deacon to play his cards so close to the chest. Thy spy was normally flamboyant with his lies. Whatever he'd done, or was lying about having done...man, it must have been a doozy. "That's a stupid excuse, Deacon. But fine. If you don't want to even bother coming up with a lie, that's your business. All I want to know is what you're dragging me into and why I should care about it."

"And I'll be happy to fill you in, Mac," Deacon replied. His cool exterior betrayed little, but MacCready had known him for a long time, and the relief on his face at not being interrogated was palpable. "We can go grab dinner or something. I mean, as long as you...you..." he burst out laughing. "You do still have other clothes, right?"

The sniper smirked. "What, too good to eat with Boston's guardian?"

"More like you'll put me to shame," Deacon replied. "I didn't pack any of my formals. I was a bit busy trying to keep your best friend Preston alive."

MacCready looked around anxiously. "What? Preston's here too? Aw, man, now I really am never gonna live this down."

The spy shook his head. "We parted ways a couple days ago. Like I said, we're kinda sorta barely not at war right now. But just barely."

"So you came to get my help. Knowing that I work for the Minutemen." The sniper sighed. "You did remember that, right?"

"Yeah, but the way I see it, you're still freelance," Deacon replied. "And I'm paying. What have they done for you lately?"

"That's...honestly, that's fair," MacCready agreed. His gut twisted, but he did his best to ignore it. He wasn't betraying Myra by helping the Railroad. Hell, she was part of the Railroad. And besides, it wasn't like she hadn't turned her back on him first. Turnabout was more than fair play in the Commonwealth, and MacCready had never been stupid enough to let himself value sentiment over a solid day's pay. He couldn't afford to. "But only if you promise to tell me everything. And I mean everything. No lies. No bullsh...no crap. Just the truth. I need to understand what I'm walking into."

Deacon groaned. "You're killing me, pal."

"It's that or I'm just gonna finish my contract and walk," MacCready insisted. "I'm gettin' real sick of everyone coming to me when they need something and not giving a pile of mirelurk scat about me in between. If we're gonna keep working together, Deacon, I need you to start trusting me. Otherwise, how the hell do you expect me to put any faith in you?"

The spy grinned. "You really should try to be a better judge of character," he teased. "How will you know if I'm lying? I could just make something up?"

MacCready chuckled. "Deacon, I've known you for a long time. If you really think I can't tell when you're lying..."

The look on the spy's face was pensive, almost unreadable. For a moment, MacCready was afraid that he'd pissed Deacon off. Not like it'd be the first time. But within the space of a few seconds, it was gone, and Deacon's easy smile returned. "Well, let's bet on it. I'm gonna tell you everything that happened with Whisper and exactly what I know about these massacres. But I'm, gonna make, like, an absolute ton of it up. If you can guess what parts are true, you win."

The sniper rolled his eyes. "Like I'm playing this game with you again. Last time I bet against you, I had to dance with you."

"And that tango was legendary," Deacon replied, beaming. "But I promise, I don't want anything embarrassing from you. If I win, all I want is for you to never ask me about what happened again. Is that good enough?"

"Fine," MacCready replied. "But if I win..." he thought for a moment. "If I win, You're gonna convince a couple of your Railroad heavies to come help me get the cure for my son."

Deacon paled. "You really overestimate my authority," he groaned.

MacCready smirked. "Oh? Because didn't you tell Myra that you founded the Railroad, and Dez was your lackey?"

"I told Whisper a lot of things," the spy muttered. "None of it really mattered. Even the true stuff."

The familiar twist of concern in the sniper's gut reasserted itself. He couldn't remember ever seeing Deacon this bitter before. Whatever had happened between him and Myra must have been truly awful. Bad enough to hurt a man with non-stick skin. Bad enough to drive a fiercely independent woman into the arms of the damned Brotherhood of Steel.

He shook his head. "Look, Deacon. I know you're not in charge or anything. Just...if you can. At least try."

Deacon looked off towards the heart of the city, his mouth drawn in a tight line. For a long time, he didn't move. If MacCready hadn't just been talking to him, he might have mistaken the spy for a particularly filthy statue. Finally, Deacon sighed, turning his head back to look at him. "Okay. I can't promise anything. But if you win, I'll do my best." He grinned. "But I'm warning you, you have no idea how wild the past couple months have been."

"Come on, how bad could it possibly be?" MacCready teased. "I mean, what'd you do, steal all of Danse's underwear?"

"Not exactly," the spy replied. "Great idea, though." He pointed down to the alleyway, where the dumpster was moving slightly. "Better put your kid-killer down before he wakes up. I'd hate to get in the way of justice and all. Meet me over at the Old Corner Bookstore when you're done. There's something there you probably ought to see."

With that, the spy dashed off across the rooftops towards the Goodneighbor gates, and MacCready turned his mind to less pleasant business.

* * *

_**A/N: I'm back! Sorry for the week off. Things got...interesting around here. **_

_**It was good getting some of our boys back together. Deacon and Mac are always such a joy to work with!**_

_**I'm really looking forward to the next chapter. I know Myra's been all over the place lately, and it's high time for us to understand why she's gone from confident leader to...well, to honestly pretty pathetic since she came back to the Commonwealth. Hopefully her time back in the Institute will help piece some of that puzzle together.**_

_**NEXT CHAPTER: Clayton Holdren struggles to save Myra's life, in spite of her best efforts.**_


	18. The Patient

**18\. The Patient**

**_Clayton does his best to take care of an ailing Myra. He and Alan Binet have a serious talk about objectivity._**

* * *

Dr. Clayton Holdren sat in an immaculately white chair, scrolling through seemingly endless streams of data on the computer screen in front of him. It seemed like for every task his team accomplished, five more critical projects cropped up. The minutia of his job as department head was never-ending, problems sprouting like weeds under his nose every time he dared to breathe. For now, he had the manpower to handle most of it, thank goodness. But the Institute's population was aging significantly. Birth rates were down across the board, and had been for years. It seemed like the more advanced synth technology became, the less interested Clayton's fellow scientists were in replenishing their population. As a biologist, he found this to be beyond problematic. What hope was there for the future if there was no one around to live in it? How could they redefine mankind if there was no mankind left? The whole thing was ludicrous.

Of course, the scientist freely admitted that he was part of the problem. It wasn't that he relished being single. He was just too damn busy to really spend any time getting to know any of the women in other departments, and like hell was he going to get romantically involved with one of his colleagues in Bioscience. He was the department head. It simply wouldn't be ethical.

Besides, his love life wasn't nearly as important as the life of the battered young woman who lay on the hospital bed beside his workstation, her silvery hair carefully pinned back from her pale, scarred face. Under normal circumstances, he would have been almost pleased to see Myra back in the Institute. He was fascinated by Father's pet experiment, fascinated by who and what she had become since leaving the vault. His patient was...well, she was unique, and every day she adapted in one way or another to the circumstances in which she found herself. He had hoped - once everyone over at the SRB had calmed down about this Railroad business, at least - that she would be coming back to the Institute to stay. Perhaps she would even agree to join the Bioscience division. She wasn't a scientist, but she had a quick mind and a strong sense of ethics, which were the two traits Clayton valued the most in his coworkers. Everything else could be taught, and he would be thrilled to teach her everything he could.

But Myra's return was not a happy turn of events, as it happened. She'd teleported in unconscious, her fever-wracked body tumbling to the cold floor of the atrium. Fortunately, Alan's boy Liam happened to be in the vicinity, and he had brought her down to Bioscience with a fearful look in his large gray eyes. It had taken days to stabilize her, and longer still for her injuries to heal. Dr. Holdren barely left her side, choosing to work in the observation chamber by her bedside rather than trust her care to anyone else. After all, she was too important for him to just hand off to someone else. No one understood her the way he did. How could they?

For three weeks, Clayton had kept her in a medically induced coma while her body got the rest it so desperately needed. Myra was hardy, almost ridiculously so, but even still...he sighed. Her body had taken a lot of abuse, far more than just the most recent injuries. Even with her incredible stamina, it was a miracle she'd endured as much as she had. She had greatly exceeded his expectations. Perhaps that was why he'd grown so fond of her.

The door to the observation room slid open with a pneumatic hiss, and Clayton looked up, his mouth loosening into a gentle smile. "Oh, hello Liam."

Dr. Binet's son smiled grimly back, walking slowly towards the bed. "How is she? Any change?"

"Happy to report that she's almost good as new," the scientist replied. "So you can tell your father to stop sending me internal memos asking me about her condition. It's clogging up the server."

Liam nodded. "That's just how my father is, Dr. Holdren. You know that."

"Yeah, I do," Clayton said, pushing back from his desk with a heavy sigh. "I don't blame him. I just wish he remembered that biological systems are complicated. You can't just reboot living tissue. I mean, maybe we'll get there someday, but..."

The younger man laughed nervously. "No, I understand. I guess we're all just a bit on edge. After all, she's Father's mother. If anything happened to her..."

"Trust me, Liam, I'm well aware," the scientist said. "But I've done all I can do. The rest, as I keep telling you, is -"

"A waiting game," Liam interrupted. "Yes, I know."

Clayton hovered over Myra's bedside, checking the instruments connected by thin wires to her unconscious body. Ignoring Liam, he jotted down a few readings, comparing them to his notes from six hours prior. With a low whistle, he rushed back to his desk, typing furiously.

"What is it?" asked Liam, watching him with concern.

Clayton waved him off, his eyes glued to the screen. "Not now, Liam. You should go."

"But I can help!" the boy protested.

Dr. Holdren looked up at him, fire in his icy blue eyes as panic gnawed at him. No one could know what was happening. No one could see. If they saw, they would know, and that was something Clayton couldn't risk. Not even for Alan's son. "The best thing you can do for her is to leave," he hissed. "Please. I can't have any distractions right now."

The young Binet stood frozen for a moment, his lips moving slightly as though he were rehearsing what to say. After a while, however, he seemed to realize that Dr. Holdren wasn't going to relent, and he slunk off through the door, his face crestfallen. Clayton hated telling him no, but his refusal was as much for Liam's sake as it was for anyone else's. Alan wouldn't want his only son involved in this. It was bad enough that the boy had been the one to find her. Liam was smart, too damn smart for his own good sometimes. It was going to get him in deep trouble someday.

Clayton turned his attention back to his monitor. He stared at the figures in front of him, trying to make sense of these new readings. Myra's blood pressure was finally back at an acceptable level, but her white blood cells seemed to be attacking her...oh no. He dashed to the table of medical equipment nearby, frantically searching for an immunosuppressant. His fingers trembled slightly as they filled a clean syringe, making it difficult to measure the dosage correctly. He'd known that it was possible for her body chemistry to change slightly over the course of her treatment, but he hadn't honestly expected this.

"Come on, Myra," he muttered anxiously under his breath, waiting for the medication to take effect. "You've got to pull through. I don't know what we'll do if this doesn't work." He checked her brain scan, frowning as he watched her dreaming patterns shift and warp. He hadn't wanted to pull her out of stasis, not until he was satisfied that her body had regained its strength, but there was a chance that the anesthetic would react poorly with the immunosuppressant, and he simply wasn't prepared to risk it. Whether he liked it or not, it was time.

The scientist stayed by Myra's bedside for the next few fitful hours, constantly monitoring her condition. The medication seemed to be working, at least. But it shouldn't have been needed. He'd been careful when he patched her up. So very careful. Why, of all the patients for this to happen to, did it have to be her? The potential loss of anyone was a concern, of course. But Myra was too valuable to risk. Clayton had always insisted on that, even when he'd been told to let her go before.

_"You can't keep her in a cage, Clayton,"_ the memory of Alan Binet's voice berated._ "She's safer on the surface. You know that."_

He knew Alan was right, at least in this instance. The robotics expert might have some strange ideas about synths, but he had always been committed to his work and to Father's commands. Still, Clayton hated what Myra had been through, the wounds on her body and her psyche that no amount of medical intervention could heal. It could have all been prevented. Maybe that was worth the risk of keeping her in the Institute.

The Institute was a wonderful place in a lot of ways. Clayton felt blessed to have been born there. He tried not to think of all the young people who suffered and died on the surface, never being able to reach maturity or their full potential. The Institute was secure, clean, protected. There were so many incredible innovations that made life underground seem almost like a paradise. But he never once allowed himself to believe that life in the Institute was safe. Especially not for someone like Myra.

Her initial arrival had been a shock to the tight-knit community. Very few people even among the Directorate had known of her existence, and while many accepted her with open arms as Father's mother, there were others who were less thrilled about how easily her security breach was ignored. Dr. Ayo in particular had taken an instant dislike to her - not that the acting head of the Synth Retention Bureau really seemed to like anyone, but his distaste for Myra was greater than his disdain for most people. It made sense that people didn't trust her after how she'd arrived. But Clayton feared that for some people, it went far beyond distrust.

Myra represented several inconvenient truths, but the one that seemed to bother the most people was how much she valued life on the surface. That had been an attitude that no one had anticipated. Those who had been born in the Institute had grown up believing that the surface was a lost cause, that their sterile white paradise was the only real hope humanity had left. But Myra challenged that belief. She had allowed herself to be broken and battered for the sake of the surface-dwellers. Every scar she bore was a testament to her belief that there was hope above ground, a hope worth fighting for. That belief scared a lot of people, and nothing was as dangerous or unpredictable as fear. Fear divorced the human mind from rationality. It made otherwise competent people behave in absurdly incompetent ways. Dr. Holdren had already seen the cracks forming in his own department, and he suspected that the problem was similar in all divisions. People, whether they admitted to it or not, were beginning to choose sides. And with Myra as a figurehead for one half of the divide...to say that she was in danger would be a severe understatement.

Clayton would do anything to protect her, of course. He didn't entirely agree with her sentiments, but he was scientist enough to recognize that he did not have the data she did. His only real point of contact with the surface was the Warwick family. More precisely, it was with the synth who had replaced the family's patriarch. There was so little he knew about the outside world, so many variables he was humble enough to admit that he didn't understand. Few people had ever left the Institute. None had ever come back from the outside...with the exception of Myra, naturally. What if things weren't as hopeless as they all believed? What if all the surface needed was some guidance, some help? Wouldn't that be worth it?

Myra groaned weakly, her eyes fluttering open as she struggled to sit up.

"Hey, easy now," Clayton urged, holding her down gently so she wouldn't hurt herself. "You've been through quite the ordeal, it seems."

"Where...where am I?" Myra croaked, her emerald eyes fading in and out of focus.

"You're in one of the observation rooms off of Bioscience," he replied with a patient smile, easing his grip on her. "I would have preferred it if we could have had you recover in your quarters. But given your condition, I wanted to be close by to monitor you, and your room is... well, it's certainly not the largest. It's strange to me, given your importance, that Father placed you in such subpar accommodations."

Myra chuckled weakly. "I'm used to it, believe me. And...ugh...and contrary to what you eggheads think, I'm nothing particularly special. Not like I plan on staying here more than I have to anyway." She looked around slowly, taking everything in. "But why are you here? Where's Dr. Volkert?"

The scientist's pulse quickened. He wasn't expecting her to notice. It wasn't like she'd ever bothered to stop in for a physical the last time she was in the Institute. It was true, Dr. Holdren wasn't a physician, not exactly. He certainly had a well-above-average command of human anatomy and physiology, but generally he preferred to busy himself with his synth gorilla project and similar experiments. Gorillas didn't give a damn about bedside manner, for one thing. "I'm afraid he's had his hands full," Clayton said vaguely. "We may have fewer injuries here than your surface-dwellers, but... things happen. I hope you don't mind that I decided to oversee your care myself."

"That depends," she muttered. "How much of me is still human?"

Clayton examined her chart, doing his best to suppress a grin. "Well, I'm happy to report that your percentage of human flesh is pretty much the same as when you arrived. Obviously we had to remove your spleen, so that's where the discrepancy comes from. But no, I promise, I haven't been experimenting on you." That wasn't really a lie.

"Damn," Myra groaned, trying to sit up again and failing miserably. "I was kinda hoping for some subdermal claws or...ow! Or laser vision."

Clayton chuckled. "I'm fairly certain your son wouldn't be too pleased if I did something like that. I'm not looking to get on the Director's bad side."

"I guess that's comforting," Myra wheezed. Her face screwed up in pain. "I feel like absolute garbage. And my head...ugh! How many sledgehammers did you use on me?"

"I'm afraid the headaches might be a problem for a while," the scientist replied apologetically. "Until the anesthesia's entirely out of your system, I can't risk giving you anything for the pain."

"Well, aren't you just useless?" she snarled, clutching weakly at her head. In one swift motion, she ripped the electrodes off of her brow, leaving dark pink circles of worried flesh in their place. "Fine. I'll do it myself."

"Hey! Don't make me restrain you!" Clayton protested. "You can't...I need to keep you under observation!"

"Like hell," Myra hissed, hauling herself out of bed. "You can't keep me here! I won't stay here!" She staggered to her feet, making it a whole three wobbly steps before her legs buckled under her.

Clayton ran to her side, managing to catch her before she hit the ground. "You're in no condition to be walking," the scientist pleaded. "Your spleen was bad enough. Don't get me started on the number of poorly-healed bones we had to re-fracture and reset. It'll be a while before you get your strength back."

She glared up at him, her green eyes clouded with groggy confusion as the pain overwhelmed her. "Where's Danse?" she asked. "He said he wouldn't leave me."

Dr. Holdren frowned. "You mean Paladin Danse? With the Brotherhood of Steel?"

Myra nodded. "Yeah."

"He's not here," the scientist replied, trying to keep her calm even as his own heart clenched with trepidation. "He probably would have been apprehended if he'd tried." Clayton had head rumors that Myra was involved with the Brotherhood of Steel, but he hadn't known how close she and M7-97 had become. If she was asking for him...that was an unexpected development. His brow furrowed. Unexpected and troubling. M7-97 could put the entire experiment at risk. It was bad enough that he had broken his programming and had stopped sending information back to the Institute within the first few weeks of his assignment as a sleeper agent. To think that he'd formed an attachment to Myra, who undoubtedly had no idea what he was...it was a disaster in the making. Damn it, Alan would be furious when he found out.

"I...I guess you're right," Myra said with a sigh. "I just...I can't believe he sent me here alone. He knows how much I..."she froze, stiffening in Clayton's arms. "Are you going to let go, or what?"

The scientist helped her back to her bed. "Sorry. I assumed you'd rather not collapse on the floor."

She smiled weakly. "Thanks, I guess. You know, for the whole saving my life thing."

He nodded, returning her smile gently as he carefully tucked a blanket around her, securing her limbs loosely so she wouldn't try to escape again. "You really ought to be more careful, Miss Larimer. We can regrow just about any part of you, but even the Institute can't cheat death."

She eyed him carefully, her eyes calculating. "I'm counting on it," she muttered under her breath.

Well, that was threatening. Clayton knew Myra's view of the Institute was less than favorable. How could it not be? She'd spent months on the surface hearing nothing but horror stories about synth imposters and meddlesome scientists. He didn't expect her to understand what they were doing, how crucial their work was. But to hear that dangerous tone in her voice, to see the pain and hatred in her eyes...the scientist couldn't help but feel a little bit hurt and more than a little bit concerned. Myra really was intent on destroying the Institute, wasn't she? "Please, don't judge us so harshly, Miss Larimer. If you take the time to get to know us, to understand what the Institute is really all about I'm -"

"You kidnapped my son!" she snarled. "You killed my husband! And you expect me to think...ugh...to think highly of your little science cult?"

Clayton sighed heavily. "That wasn't my decision. I wasn't even born yet when that happened. Almost none of us were." He pulled his chair over, sitting beside her bed. "I know it doesn't make up for what happened to you, but I truly am sorry for what you've been through."

Myra scoffed. "Yeah. It really doesn't." She sighed softly. "But I guess you have a point, Dr. Holdren."

"Clayton," he blurted. "You can call me Clayton."

She stared at him, her striking eyes boring into his. Myra held his gaze for so long that for a moment, the scientist almost feared that time had stopped. In spite of the groggy weakness in her vision, she seemed to be adeptly analyzing the deepest parts of him, laying him bare like an x-ray of his deepest self. It was disconcerting.

Eventually, she nodded slightly, her mouth twitching into a slight smile. "If it gets me out of here faster, I'll call you whatever you want," she mused. "So, _Clayton_, how long have I been here?"

"It's been a few weeks," he admitted, his heart racing at her use of his given name. It sounded strange on her lips, dangerous. What had he been thinking, telling her to call him that? Well, that was the answer. He hadn't been thinking.

"A few weeks?" she exclaimed. "Damn it! I...I can't be here!"

He shook his head. "You're not going anywhere in your condition, Miss Larimer. Unless you've already forgotten what happened earlier. You can't walk."

"I don't have to walk to leave," she replied, reaching for her wrist. "I just..." her voice trailed off as her eyes widened in horror. "Where the hell is my Pip-Boy?" she hissed.

"It's in safe hands," he reassured her. "I know there's information on there you'd prefer to keep out of certain hands, right? Don't worry. You can have it back when I decide you're well enough to return to the surface."

"So I'm a prisoner?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No. You're my patient. And I won't let you get hurt just because you're stubborn."

"But I don't...I can't be here. Please, Clayton," she begged, her eyes welling with tears. He was almost taken in by her terrified gaze. For a moment, he genuinely considered paging Alan and telling him to bring her device back. She had every reason to be scared, every reason to flee the Institute again. But Clayton wasn't a sentimental man, for all his kindness. He was a man of science, and he knew when he was being manipulated. He choked back his pity, trying to remain objective.

"I can't allow you to leave," he replied. "I'm sorry. It's really best for everyone if you stay here under my protection."

Myra scoffed. "Your protection? Have you ever even held a gun before?"

He shook his head. "That's...that's hardly the point."

"It's exactly the point!" she retorted, struggling to escape her swaddling. "What are you gonna do if someone tries to hurt me again? Turn the gorillas loose?"

"I actually hadn't considered that," he replied, restraining her as gently as possible. "The collateral damage would be significant, but..."

"If you make me stay here, you're putting your entire precious Institute at risk," she warned, thrashing. "I have no intention of making peace with this horrible place." Myra sighed. "This wasn't how I wanted to come back. Not alone. Not injured. But if you think I'm passing up this opportunity to make things right, you're an idiot."

Clayton sighed. "I know things didn't go so smoothly the last time you were here," he soothed. "But please, give us a chance to show you the good things we're accomplishing. I know the Institute hurt you. But what we're doing is worth the pain, the sacrifice. I think with time, you'll really come to understand that."

"I'll never understand!" she retorted. "You're monsters! All of you!"

He recoiled as she spit in his face, hot, viscous saliva dripping down his brassy blonde bangs. The bio-hazard alone was horrifying, but the sharp twist of pain in his gut was almost worse. After everything he'd done, all the sleepless nights and research, all the secret meetings he'd attended and impossibilities he'd thwarted...was this really the way it was all going to end? It was understandable that Myra hated the Institute. But to have that hate extended to him...it was worrying how deeply that tormented him. Clayton slid thick restraints around Myra's limbs and waist, lashing her firmly to her bed. "This is for your own good," he replied coldly. "I'll give you some time to regain your rationality. Don't worry. This room is under careful guard. I won't let anything happen to you."

With that, he walked briskly from the room, doing his best to ignore her protests. He needed to think. More than that, he needed counsel. And there was only one other person who could help him put things back into perspective.

* * *

"You left her alone?" Dr. Binet asked dubiously, his pale gray eyes narrowed at his colleague. "Have you completely lost your mind, Clayton?"

"Maybe," the scientist replied glumly. "I'm...I'm having difficulty staying objective, Alan."

The robotics expert sighed, leading Clayton over to an immaculate couch. "I wish I could say that I expected anything different," he mused, "but you've never been nearly as cold as you like to pretend." He smiled slightly. "I remember when you wouldn't even use her name."

"Maybe that was my big mistake," Dr. Holdren said with a heavy sigh. "I shouldn't have listened to you."

"Or, you should have listened to me earlier," Dr. Binet shot back. "Objectivity is very important in our line of work, especially when it comes to subjects like Myra. But at the same time, what we've done...we have to take responsibility, but we also have to recognize how much the parameters have changed. This is so much bigger than The Fifth World now. If we're right, hell, nothing like this has ever happened before. So I think you can be excused a little sentimentality, Clayton. So long as you don't let it interfere with your job."

"That's the problem, though," Clayton replied. "How can it not interfere with my job? I'm not like you, Alan. I don't have a family. My job is my life. And honestly, I've always accepted that. What Bioscience does is far more important than any of my own needs, and it's certainly more important than the comfort and happiness of any individual. There's no room for sentiment when it comes to the task at hand. Who Myra is...what she represents...it's too vital to the next stage of our development."

Alan shook his head. "Don't forget about the last time. I keep telling you, we have to adjust our methodology if we want this project to succeed. And it has to succeed, or nothing else we're doing matters. You understand that, surely?"

"Of course I do!" the biologist exclaimed. "That's why we've done everything that we have, isn't it? For the future? But I guess I never took into account..." his voice trailed off as he stared past Alan, his eyes fixating on the stark white wall behind the man's head. "What if she doesn't want to help us?"

"That's her choice, of course," the robotics expert said gently. "It won't work if we force her. If Myra is hell-bent on destroying everything we've built..." he chuckled bitterly. "Well, maybe that's just the price of our sins."

"There you go again," Clayton groaned. "Alan, I'll never understand how you can cling so tightly to something so irrational as faith."

"And I'll never understand how you can spend your entire career dedicated to the miracle of life and not believe in something bigger than us," Dr. Binet replied. "What makes us human, if not the yearning in our souls?"

"Souls," Clayton mused, "as if such a thing were real. But we can have that debate again another time. There's something else."

Alan frowned. "Something that disturbs you more than losing your precious objectivity? Is that possible?"

"It's M7-97. He and Myra are...I think they might be romantically involved."

Dr. Binet grinned. "Good for them! I knew there was something special about that unit!"

"No, that's not good, Alan," Clayton reprimanded. "It could compromise the entire experiment! Doesn't that concern you?"

"Of course it does," Alan muttered. "But what do you expect us to do about it? We can't interfere, or we'll compromise the experiment ourselves. We have to let it run its course, Clayton. If she's chosen him, well, isn't that a worthwhile conclusion as well? What if he genuinely loves her? Isn't that evidence too?"

"We can't quantify love!" Clayton retorted. "We can observe the brain, see the chemical processes that govern attraction. But love, real, actual love? That's not something we can measure. And M7-97 is a dead end, whether they love each other or not. We have to do something! Anything."

Dr. Binet sighed. "What exactly do you think we should do?"

"We have options. We could try to turn her head, make her fall for someone else."

Alan rolled his eyes. "You've never been in a relationship, have you? It's not that easy, not if she really cares for him. And who would you choose for this assignment?" He paused, staring at his colleague. "Wait. You wouldn't do it yourself, right?"

Clayton shook his head, blushing in spite of himself. "Of course not! Besides, you're one to talk! Using your own family to test synth familial integration..."

"Leave Eve out of this!" Dr. Binet shot back. "That's a completely different situation. Myra's not...she's Father's mother. Don't you think he'd object to you moving in on her, even if she wasn't your patient?"

"I would never!" Dr. Holdren retorted.

Alan cocked an eyebrow at him, unconvinced. "It would solve quite a few of our problems, if you did. I mean, obviously, it'd be a horrible breach of ethics, so this is all hypothetical. But if we could have more control over the variables...I could see that not being the worst decision."

"Outside of the fact that Father would banish me to the surface, you mean," Clayton grumbled. "I wouldn't last a day. We both know that."

"So, if not you, who would you suggest?"

Clayton froze. "If you must know, I was going to suggest...don't be upset with me, but I was going to suggest Liam."

"You can't be serious," Alan groaned.

"Why not?" he asked. "I know it'd put him at risk, but it's not his project. There's fewer ethical problems with him being involved. And if there was another candidate I trusted, believe me, I would choose someone else. But there isn't."

"Absolutely not," Dr. Binet said sternly. "He's a child!"

"He's almost twenty, Alan!" Dr. Holdren shot back. "Whether you like it or not, he's a man now."

"He's my son!" Alan growled. "I won't let you pimp him out just because you don't want Myra involved with M7-97. If I thought he had feelings for her, maybe that'd be different. But I won't let you hurt my boy. I don't care how important The Fifth World is. He's my son."

Clayton slumped in his seat. "I don't know what to do, Alan," he muttered, defeated. "This whole situation...we have to handle it so delicately. Look, I'm sorry I suggested using Liam. You're right. But we're running out of options."

"What's your other idea, Clayton?" Dr. Binet asked quietly.

Dr. Holdren sighed. "We could deliberately leak information to the Brotherhood of Steel, out M7-97 as a synth. I have evidence that Myra already has fed them encrypted information from our mainframe. It wouldn't be too difficult for, say, your son to remote-hack their server and add a few bits of data to what they've received, would it?"

"Do you have a plan that doesn't put Liam in harm's way?" Alan said grumpily. "Besides, you know what will happen to M7-97 when the Brotherhood finds out what he is. They'll kill him, Clayton."

"A single synth life's a small price to pay for the future of mankind, don't you think?" Clayton argued. "Look, if you have a better plan, please, enlighten me."

Dr. Binet sighed. "Fine. But I'll do the hack, not Liam. He might be faster than me, but I taught him everything he knows. And this is our project. We should be the ones to take responsibility for manipulating the outcome." His pale eyes met Clayton's, sincere and resolute. "I still think this is a mistake. We're scientists. We are supposed to let the results fall where they will, to observe, not to manipulate. This is wrong, Clayton. I know you realize that."

The biologist nodded. "I do. And I wish we had the luxury of waiting, or of trying again. But we're running out of do-overs. If we don't get results this time..."

"I know the risks, Clayton," Alan replied. "But all the same...there has to be another way. We should sleep on it. Maybe things will seem clearer in the morning."

"I should get back anyway," Dr. Holdren muttered. "I need to apologize to Myra. Not that it'll help."

Alan chuckled, patting him on the back. "Trust me. Apologizing to women always helps. And in this case, well...maybe we can still salvage this. Just be careful, Clayton. I know I said you need to stop worrying about being objective, but..."

"But what?" Clayton asked.

The robotics expert sighed heavily. "It doesn't matter. Just forget it."

Clayton nodded, leaving the Binet residence and heading down the spiral staircase back towards his office. He had been hoping for a better resolution to the issues at hand, but talking with Alan had only made things more confusing. Clayton cared for Myra. Of course he did. She was exceptional, truly a masterpiece. And he'd like to think that he wouldn't have a problem with her being romantically involved with someone who wasn't a synth. But he couldn't be certain. Even when he'd suggested that Liam attempt to win her over, he'd felt a surge of some dark panic in his gut. He was too close to this, too invested in her well-being to make the difficult decisions. That much was clear.

He was just confused. That was it. Confused and exhausted. How long had it been since he'd gotten a good night's sleep? Alan was right. Rest would help him think clearer.

Dr. Holdren frowned as he approached the side room off of the Bioscience wing. The synth he'd left on guard was slumped in the corner, unconscious. His heart leapt into his throat, blood pounding in his ears. Something was very wrong. He grabbed the closest thing to a weapon he could, a small scalpel, and clutched it in his trembling right hand as he eased open the door to Myra's recovery ward.

The fist thing he saw was Myra, her emerald eyes bulging with fear as a courser leaned over her with a dispassionate glare. He tried to rush to her side, only to feel a pair of strong hands pulling him back roughly. The scalpel fell uselessly to the ground, a broken chime as the metal bounced uselessly off of the tile floor.

"You really need to learn when to keep secrets and when to share, Dr. Holdren," mused a gravely, serpentine voice from behind him. His blood ran cold as a slight, bald man walked past him, heading for Myra. Dr. Ayo chuckled, stroking her cheek with one finger. "When were you going to tell me our guest was awake?"

"Leave me alone, you bastard!" Myra spat.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Dr. Ayo replied, his dark eyes glinting with malice. "Not until you answer my questions." He turned to the courser who was restraining Clayton. "Get him out of here. Oh, and do make sure he rests. I have a feeling that he's going to need it."

"You can't do this!" Dr. Holdren protested. "I'm a division head! And she's Father's mother! Do you really think he'll be pleased to hear you've been torturing her?"

Dr. Ayo scowled. "I wasn't planning on telling him. After all, he trusts me to do my job. If I were you, I'd worry more about whether or not he trusts you to do yours."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Clayton asked, struggling against his captor.

"Things are changing, Dr. Holdren," the SRB head replied calmly. "It'd just be a shame if you found yourself on the wrong side of history. You should think about that." He turned back to Myra. "Now, you're going to tell me who the Railroad sent you to contact. There's no use denying it. I already know everything."

"Bite me," she snarled.

Dr. Ayo sighed heavily. "I'd rather not hurt you, Myra. But that doesn't mean I won't."

Clayton struggled to free himself, to intervene somehow, but he was overwhelmed by helplessness against the courser who held him back. The muscular synth dragged him through the door into the back corridor. The last thing Clayton saw before the door slid shut behind him was Myra's eyes as she stared at him, fear and vindication illuminating her gaze. It cut him to the bone.

* * *

**_A/N: I've honestly always rather liked Clayton. He's one of the few people in the Institute who seems to genuinely like the player character. I mean, especially since he has a couple Railroad holotapes in his room..._**

**_NEXT CHAPTER: Deacon and MacCready continue investigating the massacres. Deacon makes one last attempt to reach out to Myra._**


	19. The Shifting Winds

**19\. The Shifting Winds**

**_Deacon and MacCready work around the clock to figure out who is targeting settlements and why. Deacon finally decides it's time to stop torturing himself (at least for now)._**

* * *

Deacon sighed heavily as he leaned back in his chair, gazing at the light as it refracted through the tumbler of amber whiskey in his hand, sending fractured patterns dancing across the table. He wasn't much of a drinker, not anymore, but with the way his investigation had been going, he was grateful for something to take his mind off of things.

He and MacCready had been on the road for days, making their way slowly and carefully north from Goodneighbor. They had to take a circuitous route through the city, avoiding open areas where Watchers and other, even more dangerous things might be lurking. The Commonwealth's roads had always been desolate, but it was actually eerie how few humans they'd seen in their travels. It seemed like everyone was running scared from the threat of annihilation. Most bars and flophouses were closed. Fewer caravans than ever trekked between settlements. It was as though the whole world was waiting in quiet, fearful anticipation of another Taffington.

It hadn't taken Deacon long to realize that he and MacCready were being tailed. True to her word, Dez had sent agents to follow the spy, shadows sent to ensure that he followed her commands. Fortunately - or unfortunately, really, for the long-term survival of the Railroad - the agents were easy to spot and easier still to ditch. Deacon wasn't sure what disturbed him more, the fact that he was under surveillance or the fact that it was so incredibly terrible. Once he'd had his fun and given the agents the slip, however, the spy had stopped in at HQ to drop off Tracey and the half-melted courser chip, leaving MacCready in the relative safety of one of Deacon's many personal safehouses. After the lecture Dez had given him, Deacon knew better than to flaunt his association with the young sniper. It was bad enough that Desdemona really believed that the agents she'd assigned to tail Deacon would learn anything useful from the experience. The last thing Deacon wanted to do was to give her more ammunition.

Tinker Tom had gotten to work analyzing the data right away, but with all the information he had to slog through, it was clear that it would be a while before the eccentric genius would have any new leads for Deacon. Until then, the spy had to rely exclusively on the two scraps of paper he and Preston had recovered from the destroyed boathouse. The spy had been puzzling over the words for weeks now, the familiarity of the phrases nagging at him like an itch he couldn't reach. The second, written in Caretaker's careful hand, seemed to suggest that someone or something had already infiltrated the Railroad, that whatever had led to the attack was triggered from within the organization itself. If that truly was the meaning behind the message, then the list of people who Deacon could trust had shrunk dramatically. He couldn't risk hanging around HQ. Not until he'd found the rats in the walls.

While the spy had always been suspicious of just about everyone he associated with on principle, the sting of this potential betrayal was substantially worse than he'd anticipated. It was one thing to carry a faint suspicion in the back of his mind. It was quite another to have those suspicions heightened. Deacon wanted to believe that Caretaker had meant something else by his message, that he wasn't pointing his charred, dead finger at someone within HQ. But to ignore the possibility of such a substantial threat would be beyond foolish. And Deacon, no matter how much he liked to pretend, was no fool.

HQ only had a handful of agents these days, which should have made it easier for Deacon to figure out who the traitor was. But all the agents in Desdemona's close circle had been people Deacon had worked with for years. The thought of any of them working against the Railroad...it was nearly unthinkable. It stung like Radscorpion venom, sharp and lingering. Deacon wasn't friends with any of the other agents, not really. But he knew them. He cleared them personally. What could he have missed?

Was it Dr. Carrington? The man was an absolute bastard, but he'd been with the Railroad almost as long as Deacon had been. He was a true believer, the sort of person who would sacrifice anything for the cause. While he and Deacon were often at odds, Carrington had never given the spy a reason to doubt his loyalty. At least not until now.

It couldn't be Tom, could it? The man was unhinged and brilliant enough to be running his own secret missions behind everyone's back. And since Deacon had just delivered the lion's share of the evidence directly into the man's hands, he was arguably the one in the best position to work against the organization. But Tinker Tom was careful. He was paranoid. There was no way that anyone should have been able to get to him. Whoever was working against the Railroad had to be someone else. Right?

Drummer and Glory were both possibilities as well. Both the runner and the heavy left HQ frequently for their missions. Of all the permanent agents at HQ, they were the ones most likely to be intercepted, with the exception of Deacon himself. And while Deacon didn't want to think ill of either of them, both agents in their own ways posed a significant security risk. Drummer Boy was in charge of the entire dead drop system. If he were compromised, whoever was pulling the strings would be able to easily manipulate the various safehouses and agents in the field into believing they were following HQ orders. And as for Glory...Deacon sighed. He didn't want to face it, but the fact that Glory was a synth made her particularly vulnerable to meddling. If someone knew what they were doing, they could fairly easily adjust the parameters in her brain chip. She might not even be conscious of any wrongdoing.

Or was it Dez? Deacon had to admit, it would explain a few things. Desdemona had changed over the last year, or perhaps she was finally acting on dangerous parts of her personality that Deacon had seen but had pretended not to notice for the sake of the organization. The Railroad needed someone like Dez at the helm, someone tough but fair, a true believer who would never compromise, never back down. Or did they? Was Desdemona actually deliberately dragging the Railroad down a path they could never come back from? Of all Deacon's suspicions, this was by far the most disturbing. If even their leader was compromised, what hope did the Railroad have? What hope did the synths who needed them, who relied on them for survival have?

By the time his light and careful feet had brought him back to the half-destroyed building MacCready was waiting in, Deacon's mind was thoroughly overwhelmed with the possibilities, betrayal hiding behind every memory, every friendly pair of eyes. One thing was certain: until he got to the bottom of this mess, he needed to stay as far from HQ as possible. There was no telling how much danger he could be in if the double agent discovered that he was on to them before he had a chance to act. The consequences could be truly dire.

MacCready, to his credit, had taken one look at the spy's face before pulling a bottle of whiskey from his pack and pouring them each a glass. He didn't ask any questions, didn't berate Deacon for leaving him alone. He just sat next to him, watching him quietly. Deacon was immensely grateful for the younger man's rare restraint. Perhaps the sniper could be taught after all.

Deacon looked up from his glass, his eyes meeting MacCready's deep blue ones, and he grinned. "What's the matter, Mac? Someone finally get sick of your constant bellyaching and cut out your tongue?"

The sniper looked away quickly, a faint blush playing across his boyish cheeks. "Shut up," he muttered. "I was just worried about you. My mistake."

The spy chuckled. "Worried? About little old me? If I didn't know better, I'd think we were friends."

"Like I said, my mistake," MacCready repeated, tossing back his whiskey. "So, you find out anything, or are we still chasing our own as...um, our own buts out here?"

Deacon shook his head. "It'll be a while before Tom's able to decrypt that chip. It was pretty badly damaged from the heat. Hell, knowing my luck, there won't be anything useful left on it at all. So I'm afraid we're just gonna have to work with what we already have. Have you made any progress on those clues I left you?"

"Well, I can't help you with the cypher," MacCready said, pulling a scrap of paper from his black leather coat, "but this one? I've...I've heard this before." He frowned, repeating the words. "'_They have eyes to see but do not see..._' that sounds familiar. Like something out of the Bible, maybe."

"You're religious, Mac?" Deacon asked, surprised. "I figured you weren't the type."

"I'm not," the sniper clarified. "Only thing I believe in's the aim on my scope. Well, maybe not even that, these days," he muttered. "But that's not the point. My friend, Heather, she had a Bible. Apparently her dead dad gave it to her or something. Anyway, sometimes when she was feeling particularly sentimental she'd gather us all together and read from it. I think it made her feel like she was still close to him, somehow." MacCready stared off to the east, his thoughts and gaze aiming for some point far distant. "I guess we all deal with loss in our own ways."

The spy nodded. There were certainly worse ways to deal with a lost loved one. Lord knew he'd indulged in most of them over the years. "That's not a bad guess, Mac," he replied. "If it's not from the Bible, I'd be willing to bet that whoever wrote this sure as hell was well-versed in the Good Word themselves. It certainly sounds like something a cult leader would come up with, right? I mean, I've known my share of cultists over the years. Did I ever tell you about the time i convinced a group of raiders that I was the second coming of Atlas?"

MacCready snorted. "That I'd have to see to believe."

"But blessed are those who have not seen, my son," Deacon said with a wide grin.

"I'm not your son," MacCready shot back.

"Well, if I ever did have kids," Deacon teased, "I certainly wouldn't want them to be anything like you, so that's fair."

The sniper's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure if I should be happy or offended," he muttered.

Deacon laughed, draping an arm casually around MacCready's shoulders. "Tell you what. After we figure out who's been killing all these people, we should go fishing. Just you, me, the tingly, radioactive air...hell, I'll even throw in some beer. Can't promise we'll catch anything, but just think of all the fatherly wisdom I could teach you."

MacCready shrugged his arm away, rolling his eyes. "I'm not a kid, Deacon."

"Well, yeah," Deacon replied, pretending to be hurt by the sniper's brusque response. "Hence the beers."

The sniper sighed. "I just...damn it, we've got enough to worry about right now. Why can't you take anything seriously?"

"One of us has to loosen up," Deacon retorted. "Geez, Mac. You've always been a bit of a wet blanket, but lately it seems like all you're doing is brooding. I know things are bad, but what's the point if you can't let loose and live a little, huh? Where's your sense of fun?"

"Honestly?" MacCready grumbled. "Things haven't been 'fun' for me in a while. And maybe that's good. Maybe it's time for me to grow up and take responsibility."

Deacon laughed. "Says the man dressed like a comic book character. Yeah, you're winning all the maturity contests, buddy."

"At least I'm trying to make a difference!" the sniper snapped. "What have you done lately, except drive My away?"

Deacon frowned in spite of himself. MacCready's words, whether he really meant them or not, cut the spy to his core. This was all his fault, wasn't it? If he'd just been more prudent, if he hadn't let the warm spring night and the flickering neon lights on Myra's soft skin mesmerize him, if he'd just kept his damn cool...If Myra was here, she would have solved this problem by now. She was clever, and more than that, she was relentless. Together, the three of them could have fixed everything. But now, Deacon wasn't even sure if he could fix himself.

MacCready's eyes widened as his brain caught up to his mouth. "I'm so sorry," he murmured, taking a step closer to Deacon's faltering form. "I shouldn't have said that."

"That doesn't mean you're not right," Deacon replied softly, his eyes glued to the debris-riddled ground.

"No. It's not your fault," MacCready replied. "My made her own choices, Deacon. And we both know why she chose the Brotherhood. It's a stupid reason, but it wasn't because of you. I'm sorry. I crossed the line."

Deacon fought back his feelings and met the sniper's apologetic eyes with a bright smile. "Got you!" he joked. "You should see your face, Mac! Remorse looks adorable on you."

"You jerk!" MacCready groaned. "Here I was feeling sorry for you..."

"That was your first mistake," Deacon teased. "Never feel sorry for me." He grinned, slapping MacCready roughly on the back. "See? There's plenty of stuff I can teach you."

MacCready flinched, shying away from the contact. "Cut it out," he grumbled. "Besides, we don't have time for this. We need to move on this lead. It's not much, that's for sure, but it's what we've got."

Deacon nodded. "I guess we need a copy of the Bible, don't we?"

"You mean you don't own a copy?" MacCready replied incredulously. "I always figured you'd read just about everything."

"I mean, I skimmed it," Deacon said. "Read all the good stories, you know? I...may have skipped some books. And I didn't want to leave the Bible lying around HQ. The Railroad thrives on controlled fanaticism. Emphasis on the controlled part. Dez wouldn't be too happy if suddenly all her agents were serving a power higher than her, you know?"

"I guess that makes sense," MacCready agreed. "So where should we look?"

"Well, there's a ton of churches downtown, right?" the spy mused. "Or we can go to Nahant. I know I saw one there when Myra and I were..." he trailed off, memories of that evening returning to him unprompted yet again. The taste of her whiskey-plumped lips, the breathless exhilaration of a beautiful mistake... He shook his head, banishing those thoughts. This was hardly the time. "...when we met up there a while back," he finished. "I'll bet it's still there."

MacCready watched him, a knowing smile playing about his smug lips. "I thought you wanted to keep going to Sanctuary," he replied.

"There's no point in making a report if I have nothing to report," Deacon said. "Besides, what if we get there and the Minutemen immediately capture me or something? I'm pretty sure that at least some of them still think the Railroad destroyed Taffington. If Preston can't convince them, or was only pretending to believe me, it could be quite the rude awakening. No. We need to figure this out first."

"Well," the sniper mused, "I guess I don't mind a walk. Just as long as you carry the heavy stuff. I'm not gonna lug that crap halfway across the Commonwealth for you."

"And here I was hoping for a piggy back ride!" Deacon groaned jokingly. "One of these days, someone'll give me one. You'll see! It'll be the greatest thing that's happened since the invention of Nuka Cola!"

"If you want one that badly, maybe you should go ask Danse," the sniper teased. "Or, better yet, don't ask. Just hop on his back when he clanks by. I'll bet he wouldn't even notice."

"Even if he did, that'd be a hell of a ride," Deacon agreed with a hearty laugh. "He'd be so pissed. I can see it now...you think I could make a whole 8 seconds?"

"Heck, I'd charge admission," MacCready said, his eyes lighting up. "Could you imagine how many caps we'd make? I mean, as long as Danse let us live." He shuddered. "I've learned not to get on his bad side. Last time I annoyed him, I ended up stranded with no pants."

Deacon snickered. "Oh, now that sounds like a story."

MacCready smacked his arm playfully. "It wasn't like that, you jerk. I just threw up on him, so he left me in a bathtub and stole my clothes."

"Yeah, that doesn't sound a whole lot better, buddy," Deacon teased. "But hey, you do you. I'm just mad I missed it."

"Shut up," the sniper hissed, blushing. He stormed over to his pack, throwing it a little too roughly over his shoulder. "Come on. We're burning daylight, and it's a long way to Nahant Island."

* * *

MacCready yawned as he thumbed through a mildewy old Bible, the leather cover half decayed and hanging in ragged strips about his fingers as he searched through the text. Deacon sat beside him, another copy in his hands. With a heavy sigh, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and continued skimming the thin pages. Between the two of them, they had been parsing through the book for the better part of the night by lantern light, anxious to discover any clue that might aid them in their investigation. So far, as dawn's first scarlet glow softly warmed on the horizon, they had come up empty handed.

"Maybe it's not in here at all," Deacon muttered, flipping lazily through Ecclesiastes. "We've been over the whole thing three times, Mac."

"I know," the sniper replied, "but we have to keep looking. I know it's here, Deacon."

The spy wasn't convinced. Certainly, MacCready's theory was the best one either of them had come up with so far, and given that this scrap of text was their only lead, they had to try and understand it. He tossed his copy aside in frustration, brushing the sand from his pants. "I'm going for some fresh air," he muttered. "Just yell if you figure it out, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," MacCready grumbled. "Make me do all the hard work, why don't you?"

"You're a doll, Mac!" Deacon chirped, making his way to the stairs behind the altar. He hadn't been up in the steeple for months, not since he'd met Myra praying in the chapel. He hoped what had happened between them wouldn't pollute the peace he found in his little nest overlooking the beach. It was one of the few places he felt safe, and admittedly that had been one of the main reasons he'd wanted to come here. Deacon could certainly use a double dose of peace right about now.

But there was no divorcing the chapel from Myra, now that he knew it was her sanctuary as well. He could hear her murmured prayers in every creek of the wooden steps, the bleached wood the color of her soft skin. The sea breeze on his face was the cool touch of her hand on his cheek, gentle and fading away quickly like a ghost. This was her village, after all. Her church. This place had always been more Myra's than it had been his, and the memories housed in its battered walls were a thousand echoes of lifetimes he would never know, of years stolen away, of joy he would never fully possess.

Deacon sighed heavily, wrapping his arm around one of the posts that held the gabled steeple in its place. Why did he insist on torturing himself over things he could not change? Even if he could take it all back, could erase the road that brought him here on that fateful day, would he? The spy wasn't sure. In the end, MacCready was probably right. Even if he hadn't crossed the line, Myra probably would have left anyway. She loved that self-righteous Paladin of hers far too much for any other outcome. No one else had ever stood a chance. Perhaps her sudden decision to abandon her friends wouldn't have been so abrupt. Perhaps, had Deacon not forced her hand, she would have faded from their lives gradually like faces in old photographs. Perhaps she would have remained neutral, living uncomfortably at the nexus of the conflicts between the factions of the Commonwealth for as long as she could. But in the end, it was always going to be Danse she ran to, Danse she chose to share her life with. Deacon had known it from the moment the two of them had laid eyes on each other at the Cambridge Police Station, even if he'd tried to pretend that it wasn't true. The spy had been so sure of the Railroad's need of her, so overcome with his own fondness for the cicada who had defied the odds, that he'd let himself believe that she needed them as well.

Deacon pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, worn almost through by its long months on his person. He needed to find a better place to keep the poem, if he kept it at all. For a moment, he almost threw the yellowed page away. But for some reason, his hand wouldn't crumple it, wouldn't feed it to the salty breeze. With a sigh, he tucked the old Russian verse into the inner pocket of his pack. At least it would be safer there. He closed his eyes, softly reciting the words he'd long ago committed to memory:

"_I loved you; and perhaps I love you still,_  
_The flame, perhaps, is not extinguished; yet_  
_It burns so quietly within my soul,_  
_No longer should you feel distressed by it._

_Silently and hopelessly I loved you,_  
_At times too jealous and at times too shy._  
_God grant you find another who will love you_  
_As tenderly and truthfully as I_."

He sighed, holding the words in his mind for a long moment before letting them fade. Deacon stared off past the vacant harbor, watching the fires of sunrise paint the eastern sky. Myra had never been his. And she would never be. That was for the best. With a sigh, he willed his feelings for her free, letting them drift on the waves out to meet the rising sun. All his torment, all his pain was clouding his mind. He needed to put it aside, to stop dwelling on the woman who had been his partner, his friend, and perhaps...no, never that. Those things were gone. If Deacon was going to make things right, they had to be.

The spy felt a weight ease from his shoulders, all the torment he had been filled with in the past few months fading away like dew in the sun. The familiar ache of his old sins, of his long-lost wife, were all that remained. Those were his to carry, as they had always been. The rest, as far as he was capable of letting go, were left to the sea. For a long moment, he didn't move, didn't think, just let himself rest in the cool morning air. It had been so long since he'd allowed himself such a simple pleasure that it almost felt surreal. Perhaps that was the way such things were meant to feel.

"Hey, here it is!" MacCready's voice called, muffled, from downstairs, interrupting Deacon's thoughts. He collected himself quickly, tamping down the residual twinges that sounded in his heart. "Deacon! Come here! I found the passage!"

"Coming!" the spy called back, racing down the stairs. He ran, breathless, to MacCready's side. "I can't believe it. You really found it?"

"Sure did!" the sniper replied. "Jeremiah, Chapter 5. It's right here." He pointed to a block of text, reading slowly in unpracticed tones. "'_O foolish and senseless people, who have eyes but do not see, who have ears but do not hear. Do you not fear Me?' declares the LORD. 'Do you not tr..tremble before Me, the One who set the sand as the bow.._um,_ the boundary for the sea, an end...during barrier it cannot cross?_'" MacCready frowned. "This is gibberish," he muttered. "It's just a bunch of God stuff."

Deacon shook his head. "Whoever left this message had a reason," he replied. "There's got to be more to it. Keep reading."

The sniper nodded. "'_The waves surge, but they cannot prev...prevail?' _Is that right?_ 'They roar but cannot cross it. But these people have stubborn and re...rebellious hearts. They have turned aside and gone away. They have not said in their hearts, 'Let us fear the LORD our God, who gives the rains, both autumn and spring, in season, who keeps for us the app...ointed weeks of harvest_.'_Your iniquities have diverted these from you; your sins have deprived you of My bounty. For among My people are wicked men; they watch like fowl-ers lying in wait; they set a trap to catch men. Like cages full of birds, so their houses are full of de... _is that_ deceit?_' Huh," MacCready mused, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "I'm still not sure what this crap means. I mean, the Watchers are kinda like real birds, I guess, and this mentions birds. Maybe this has to do with them?"

"Maybe," Deacon agreed. "Is that it?"

"It's a little hard to make out after that," MacCready said, holding the book out to the spy. "You might have better luck."

Deacon took the Bible, scanning the page to see where MacCready had left off. "Fowlers...deceit...here. Ok. '_Therefore they have become powerful and rich. They have grown fat and_...' I guess this says sleek? '_and have excelled in evil matters. They have not taken up the cause of the fatherless_...' missing a bit here," he muttered, squinting in the dim light. "Something...something...ah! '_defended the rights of the needy. Should I not punish them for these things?' declares the LORD. 'Should I not avenge Myself on such a nation as this? _'" Deacon looked up with a slight smirk. "Well, someone was pissed off when they wrote this."

"I guess the question is who are they so mad at?" the sniper replied. "I mean, you said this was in a safe. Do we even know if it was written recently?"

Deacon nodded. "I didn't get a good look at the original, but the ink looked...strange. Like someone used juice or something to write it. Who would have done that before the War? The paper was old, but the ink hadn't faded too much. I think it was pretty recent. I think someone wanted it found."

The sniper's eyes narrowed. "Well, if you're right, then who's the message about? The Institute?"

The spy shrugged. "Maybe. I mean, powerful, rich, and fat doesn't sound like anyone else I know. But if whoever's killing people hates the Institute, why attack settlers? Why frame the Railroad? That doesn't make any sense."

MacCready sighed. "Well, if they're crazy, maybe they don't have a motive."

Deacon shook his head. "Mac, everyone's got a motive. Especially crazy people." He frowned. "There's something I'm not seeing, something I'm missing. These attacks aren't random. They're acts of vengeance. But against whom? For what crimes?" Deacon set the bible gently down on a pew before pacing the length of the small chapel, his mind racing. "They're mostly killing Railroad agents. The settlers at Taffington were either just in the way or meant to put blame on us. That all points to the Railroad being the target. But the Institute had synths at Taffington. Also, you said a couple days ago that the Brotherhood had a similar incident at Somerville Place, and we don't have any agents there, as far as I know. Could it all be random? But that doesn't make sense. Whoever's doing this has an agenda. So why those victims? Why these specific forms of attack? And how in the hell are the Watches involved? Did someone get control over them somehow?"

"Are we sure the Institute didn't do this themselves?" MacCready asked. "They're pompous enough blowhards that I wouldn't put it past them to kill some of their own synths. Or maybe the Taffington settlers fought back and killed them."

Deacon nodded. "Yeah, that could be the case. And, let's face it, the Institute would gain a lot if the Railroad and the Minutemen were at war with each other." He sighed, rubbing his eyes. "But that doesn't feel right. There's someone else in play here, I can feel it. I haven't survived this long by ignoring my gut. It's got to have something to do with the Watchers, somehow. The fact that they got all scratchy-stabby right before these bigger attacks can't be a coincidence. But they work for the Institute. Or at least they're supposed to." He sat down on a pew with a sigh, the old salt-cured wood creaking under his frame. "We're missing something, Mac. Something important. We just need more information."

MacCready sat down next to him, holding out a can of purified water. "A shame we don't know anyone who finds information for a living, huh?"

Deacon groaned, accepting the can and taking a deep swig of the sweet, refreshing water. "Real funny, pal. Forget bartending. You should be a comedian."

The sniper snorted. "I can't take everything from you, Deacon."

The spy grinned. "Oh, don't worry. I still beat you in self-loathing every day of the week. Still, you're right. If anyone can figure this out, it's me. So why haven't I figured it out yet?"

MacCready yawned. "Maybe because it's six in the freaking morning and neither of us have slept in a couple days? Seriously, Deacon, you can do this. But first, I think we both could use some sleep."

Deacon looked over at the sniper. MacCready was right. He looked completely trashed. The bags under his eyes were so dark that they looked like face paint, and the mischievous glint had all but faded from those deep blues. Now that he was thinking about sleep, Deacon found himself equally fatigued. How long had it been since he'd slept well? Had it been months? He couldn't remember.

"There's a couch up on the second floor," Deacon said softly. "You go ahead and get some rest, Mac. I'll stay up a little longer, just to make sure we're safe here."

MacCready frowned. "Are you sure?"

"I'm already this tired," Deacon joked. "What's another couple hours? I'll be up soon, I promise."

The sniper didn't look convinced, but he dragged himself up the stairs all the same. "Good night, Deacon."

"Night, Mac!" The spy replied with a grin and a wave. "Don't let the Mirelurk hatchlings bite!"

MacCready rolled his weary eyes before disappearing upstairs, the soft wooden creaking the only trace of his presence.

Deacon watched the flame flicker in the oil lantern for a long moment before he lifted the glass, blowing it out. There was enough light to see, now, and he wanted to conserve oil as much as possible. If he really couldn't trust anyone at HQ, it might be hard for him to find supply drops. Whatever he and MacCready had, they needed to stretch their resources.

There was one other piece of business weighing on his mind, one last task to finish before he could rest. While he still wasn't certain how to fix things between him and Myra, he knew that she deserved to know what was going on. If the Brotherhood was having the same problems the Railroad was, they might have information she could share. If not, at least she might be able to help stop further massacres from her end.

Deacon hated the way he'd left things that night in the cabin. He'd been angry, hurt, and frankly terrified of the consequences of Myra's decision. But he understood her better than she probably believed. Love had made fools of many long before it sunk its fangs into Myra Larimer, including the man he had once been. Now that the die was cast, it was time to rebuild, time to offer peace. If he couldn't bring himself to kill her, perhaps he could bring her back into the fold slowly.

He tore a mildewed page from the back of an old hymnal and jotted a quick message.

_Knight Larimer,_

_Good news. I think I've found a piece to replace that cracked joint in your power armor. Please meet me at the usual place to try it out._

_-Scavver Dave_

Deacon could only hope that she'd remember the code name and what it meant, that shit had hit the fan in a major way. Hopefully, she'd come and help him get to the bottom of what was going on before the entire Commonwealth was pulled apart. Or, at the very least, she'd know that he was still looking out for her, even if she'd chosen to leave him and everything they'd fought for behind. He tucked it in his pack, making a mental note to find an excuse to swing by the Cambridge Police Station. Witness was there, according to rumor. She would know what to do.

The spy hoped that Myra would take the time to meet with him, to let him clear the air. The Railroad needed her, now more than ever. He could only hope that she still cared enough about anyone besides her Paladin to respond. The fate of the Commonwealth depended on it.

* * *

**_A/N: I'm posting this early since I have work all day tomorrow!_**

**_Who's glad that Deacon's being the bigger man here? I know I am. Mopey as he can be, I was getting tired of him dragging his feet! Deeks, the Commonwealth needs you to get your shit together!_**

**_NEXT CHAPTER: Dr. Li shows Danse the softer side of the synth problem._**


	20. The Dark Dream

**20\. The Dark Dream**

**_Dr. Li shows Paladin Danse a softer side of the synth problem. Danse's headaches take a turn for the worse._**

* * *

Senior Paladin Danse grunted in effort as he pounded out another set of pushups, doing his best to keep himself in peak condition in spite of his captivity. The Paladin hadn't had much of an opportunity to plan an escape, but he was determined to be ready when a window of opportunity presented itself. He had no way of knowing how heavily his tent was guarded, and given the display of firepower he'd been met with after the crash, Danse wasn't willing to risk going off half-cocked. All the same, his patience was wearing as thin as the meat-adjacent broth the nomads had been feeding him. Something had to give, and soon, or he was going to lose his mind.

The woman in the black mask who called herself Jenny brought him food twice a day, which gave him some frame of reference for the passing of time, even if it wasn't precise. By his estimation, he had been confined to the windowless tent for almost eight days. The Paladin hoped that Arthur would have sent a search party by now, but he knew that the reality of the situation was much more dire than he wanted to believe. The Brotherhood of Steel didn't have the manpower to search for every missing patrol, even when the personnel included two of their top soldiers. It was more likely that he and Myra would be presumed dead, victims of the vertibird crash that had stranded them with the nomadic citizens of Peregrine.

Danse rose to his feet, wiping the sweat from his brow with his discarded shirt. He grimaced as the rough fabric scraped against his skin. The Paladin never thought he'd miss his damned flight suit, but somehow, these people had found clothes that were even more uncomfortable. He even considered remaining shirtless, but one look at his scarred body convinced him to cover up. It wasn't that he hated the jagged, angry marks from where the Mirelurk Queen had nearly disemboweled him. Danse was proud of what they represented, in fact. He had nearly laid down his life to protect the woman he loved, and the testament for how deeply he cared for her would always be carried on his body as deeply as on his soul. But what he knew to be a strength could so easily be seen by others as a weakness, and if he was going to endure his time in Peregrine, he couldn't afford to show weakness.

The Paladin honestly didn't understand what he was still doing here. It was obvious that the nomads didn't want him around. They had agreed to let Danse and Myra stay until she was healed, but she wasn't even there any more. All Danse could think was that he'd been misled. These people had never extended an offer of hospitality at all. They had only ever wanted to take the two Brotherhood soldiers captive. But why?

His heart ached as he thought of Myra, of the look of utter betrayal in her eyes as Madison had knocked her unconscious. If she was even still alive, the woman he loved was in Institute custody, and there was no telling what horrors awaited her below the earth. He should have done more. But what could he have done? Danse wasn't a medic. He knew in his heart that the Institute had been Myra's best option, but that certainly didn't make it easier for him to bear.

The Paladin looked up in alarm as the doorflap opened, casting sunlight on the dirt floor of the tent. It wasn't time for dinner yet, was it? Had he really lost track of time that badly?

Dr. Madison Li walked in, looking him over with a sigh. "Danse, have you slept at all since Myra left?"

His eyes narrowed incredulously. "Left? Myra did not simply abandon her post, Doctor. We sent her away." The Paladin did his best to keep his tone level. It wasn't that he was angry at Madison. After all, the scientist had followed her conscience. Danse was the one who allowed Myra to be returned to the Institute. If they harmed her in any way, he was the one who was responsible.

It was strange how things had changed since he and Myra had become...more. The Paladin had never been fond of her taking unnecessary risks, certainly. But it seemed that since he had finally admitted how much he needed her, Danse was terrified of Myra even taking necessary ones. He wanted to protect her, to keep her from all harm. And where had that impulse led him? They were both at the mercy of others now. While the nomads of Peregrine had not harmed either of them, the same could not necessarily be said of the Institute. Danse had wanted to keep Myra by his side so desperately, and now she was farther from him than ever. He thought of those heady, blissful days in the cabin after Myra had told him she loved him. All he wanted was to be by her side, to build a life together out of the rubble of the Commonwealth. It had seemed so simple then, even in the knowledge that their duties would occasionally get in the way. Myra had given him her heart, and in return, Danse had promised to keep her safe, to take care of her. Now, she was in enemy hands, and he was a prisoner. He had failed spectacularly.

Dr. Li sighed. "I know, Paladin. But you can't keep blaming yourself for what happened. We did the best we could."

Danse shook his head. "I should have insisted that she wear her armor. I'm her commanding officer. It is...it was my duty to see all the possible dangers, to prepare her for them. I had become too lenient with her, indulged her far too much. If I'd only been more hard on her, she never would have taken so much damage."

"Yes, that's probably true," Madison agreed. Danse stared at her in shock, and she smiled slightly. "You and I both know I'm not exactly a tactful woman, Danse. I'm not going to lie to you."

"I appreciate that," he replied simply.

"All the same," the scientist continued, "You need to take better care of yourself. What will Myra say if you run yourself into the ground before she gets back?"

"It only matters if she comes back," Danse grumbled. "What if they do not allow her to return?"

Dr. Li thought for a moment. "There are certainly people who would try to force her to stay," she agreed. "But Danse, you know Myra. Do you really think she'd let anyone tell her what to do? Do you think there's any force on earth that could keep that woman from doing what she wants? Hell, she got me to agree to return to the Brotherhood of Steel, and I never thought I'd ever work for your organization again."

"That reminds me," Danse said, his eyes fixed on hers, "you still haven't explained why you are with these nomads. If you agreed to return to the fold, why have you failed to report in?"

There was a slight panic in Madison's eyes, but she suppressed it quickly. "There were...complications. These people needed my help. I couldn't turn my back on them. Not after how often I turned a blind eye before."

The Paladin watched her, puzzled. "I'm not certain I understand what your dilemma is," he said coolly. "You made Myra a promise. That should supersede anything that came to your attention afterwards."

"It's not that simple, Paladin!" Madison retorted. "Things with the Institute...I was doing some really good work there. Created new technologies that I hoped would eventually benefit all of mankind. Don't you see? I feel like I'm living that whole nightmare over again! Yes, I promised to return to the Brotherhood, because Myra showed me some things I hadn't allowed myself to see about the people I was working for. But life isn't that simple. My choices weren't which master to serve, not really. In the end, I only want to be where I can do the most good. And for now, that's here. In Peregrine."

"What could possibly be here that is more important than your work with the Brotherhood?" Danse asked, still trying to understand. "We're the best hope that the Commonwealth has. I know you understand that, or you would have never agreed to return in the first place." He sighed, wiping his eyes in frustration. "I can certainly understand that you want to assist those in need. That is a noble sentiment. But if we do not rid the Commonwealth of the synth menace, no one will have a future. Can't you see that?"

Dr. Li grimaced. "Synth menace? Danse, you always were a true believer, weren't you? Even when we first met all those years ago, you were always so very devoted to the cause. It's no wonder that you've advanced to where you are." She smiled sadly. "I hope Elder Maxson appreciates your loyalty. I hope it doesn't come back to bite you on the ass. I really do."

"Loyalty and honor are their own rewards, Dr. Li," the Paladin replied. "Though those are lessons you never seemed to understand."

The scientist snorted. "I'm loyal to my principles, Danse, not to men. The great figures of history have a way of tarnishing if you look at them too closely. I've known many so-called heroes in my life, and only once was one of them worth following. I almost followed him into an early grave, if you recall."

Danse nodded solemnly. "Dr. Gautier was a good man," he conceded. "I often wish we could have saved him. But that does not mean that we should give up without a fight. You were with us when the Brotherhood brought his dreams to fruition, when we stood against the Enclave and brought hope back to the Capital Wasteland. If we had chosen to sit by, how many more people would have died? You cannot expect us to stand idle when another threat has risen. These civilians need the Brotherhood of Steel. And the Brotherhood of Steel needs you."

Dr. Li shook her head. "Just because you solved one problem with fists does not mean that you can solve every problem with fists," she retorted. "A noble cause doesn't mean anything if you ignore the people who are caught in the crossfire." She scoffed. "After that shitshow with Heather, I would have thought that you would have understood that."

The Paladin frowned. "I...I don't remember why Knight Gautier left the Brotherhood," he replied softly. "I've tried, but...I seem to have forgotten some things."

Madison stared at him, concerned. "She stabbed you in the leg, Danse. How can you not remember that?"

His eyes widened. "Knight Gautier stabbed me?"

The scientist nodded. "I only heard about it after the fact. I was up in the lab when it happened, so I only head about it from Rothchild. Apparently you were on your way to the lavatory when you saw her sneaking out. You threatened to have her jailed for desertion, and she wasn't thrilled about the idea, I guess."

Danse's frown deepened as he rubbed his upper thigh. Was that incident where the small indentation there had come from? But then why couldn't he remember it happening? "I suppose I must have repressed that particular memory," he muttered. "It sounds...embarrassing."

Dr. Li smirked slightly. "I suppose that makes sense. No one would want to remember getting beaten by a woman half their size. But Heather never seemed that small, did she? She was stubborn as hell. Just like her father."

The Paladin nodded. "She always was insubordinate. I think that's why Sentinel Lyons liked her so much."

"Insubordination isn't a bad thing when orders are unjust," the scientist replied. "There are more important obligations than the ones we make to organizations. I hope you learn that someday."

"Everyone needs to believe in something," Danse shot back. "I choose to believe in Elder Maxson and his vision for the Brotherhood, and according to you that makes me worse than a fool. But at least I know who I serve. You claim to follow no masters, Madison. So what do you believe in, exactly?"

"I believe in taking responsibility for my mistakes," she replied softly. "Even the ones I didn't realize I was making." Dr. Li sighed. "I need to show you something, Danse. I think... I hope that once you see the rest of the settlement, you'll understand why I was delayed."

He frowned, plucking distractedly at the frayed hem of his tunic. "I find it difficult to believe that you have permission to take me anywhere," he muttered.

Dr. Li nodded. "It took some convincing, but I managed to convince Gregory that a single unarmed Brotherhood soldier wasn't really much of a threat."

Danse wasn't sure if he should be grateful or insulted. "Very well," he sighed. It it got his mind off of Myra, even for a moment, perhaps Madison's tour would be worth it. "But if this is just a ploy to get me to let my guard down..."

"Relax, Paladin," she replied. "These people aren't the enemy. That's what I want to show you."

"If they are not the enemy," Danse growled, "why did they disarm us? Why did they keep me isolated?"

Madison took a long time to reply, her eyes darting about as she tried to come up with the right words. "There are..." she sighed. "The people of Peregrine don't have much reason to trust the Brotherhood," she said finally. "They had no way of knowing how you would react to them. But Gregory trusts me. You need to do the same. Please."

The Paladin sighed heavily. He had known Madison Li for more than a decade, even if they had rarely seen eye to eye. She was a logical, rational person, which was something Danse could certainly respect. While he didn't entirely trust anyone who was not a sworn member of the Brotherhood, he at least held Madison in a high enough regard to give weight to her words. "The Brotherhood still owes you a great debt," he said. "So I suppose that grants you a certain level of trust."

Dr. Li nodded. "I knew you'd see reason." She held the door flap open. "Come on. It's only a short walk."

Danse followed her outside, blinking in the bright midday sun with a low groan. He had gotten far to used to pacing in the dark. The Paladin cupped his left hand over his eyes like a visor, shielding them from the worst of the sun's rays. As he looked around, his eyes widened in surprise. He had assumed that the nomadic town was fairly small, given the fact that he had not encountered it before. But the cluster of tents and carts that rested under the crumbling interstate was far larger than he would have suspected. There were more than a dozen tents set up in the camp, each in various states of disrepair. It was a patchwork of haphazard but sturdy construction, fabric held together with salvaged poles and wooden stakes, but for its simplicity, Peregrine was actually rather impressive.

The tent he'd been confined to stood on a small hill away from the others, guarded by two muscular guards armed with bulky white and red laser rifles. Both men's faces were cloaked in dark gray masks, their shape similar to the humanoid one worn by Jenny but decorated with a black wing over the right eye. They nodded to Dr. Li as she passed, leading Danse towards the nomad city. "Those are members of Gregory's personal guard," she whispered once they were out of earshot. "He wanted to ensure your safety."

The Paladin glanced back at the two guards. "My safely, or the safety of Peregrine?" he grumbled.

Dr. Li smirked. "Probably both. Like I said, the people here are not necessarily Elder Maxson's biggest fans. They're afraid of you. Of what you represent."

Danse nodded slightly. It was not the fist time he'd heard such things. Frankly, it amazed him how many people disliked the Brotherhood of Steel, or failed to understand what the Brotherhood truly represented. It was their mission to protect humanity from the abuse of technology, but to so many, the Brotherhood seemed to just represent a loss of freedom. Even when Elder Lyons had been in charge, had made the Brotherhood almost soft, many civilians had still mistrusted them. It disappointed Danse more than he cared to admit. Why was it so hard for people to see that the Brotherhood wanted what was best for everyone? That Arthur really did care about the Commonwealth? That they were humanity's best hope for a strong and happy future?

Even here, where Danse was a prisoner, people still seemed nervous in his presence. Masked faces peered cautiously from behind half-closed doorflaps, nervously hushed voices carrying hushed questions and rumors behind the pair as he and Dr. Li made their way to the heart of the city. No one greeted them. No one made eye contact. It was almost like being a ghost, if such things were real. Or a demon.

Madison stopped before a faded green tent. From its size and shape, Danse suspected that it had once belonged to the pre-War military. He had seen tents like it before in the literature he'd picked up around the Citadel in his younger days. The scientist turned to him, her mouth set in a tight line. "This is the Peregrine Orphanage," she said. "We lost most of the older children during the attack at our last waypoint, so the others are quite sensitive. Please be nice."

"I'm always nice to children," Danse protested. It was true. There were many, many adults he had no patience for in the world, but the Paladin had never met a child he disliked. Even the most outlandish, brattiest child merely needed guidance and discipline. There were too few children in these dark days for any of them to be taken for granted. "But why keep orphans in a nomad camp? Wouldn't they be safer in a fortified city?"

Dr. Li smiled. "Peregrine wanders out of necessity," she replied cryptically. "The children are one of the reasons it exists."

"I sincerely hope you intend to give me a straight answer one of these days," Danse grumbled.

Madison snorted. "I'm not sure why you think you're entitled to one. Or why you think that every question has one." She held the doorflap for him. "Be quiet. I think it's story time."

The interior of the tent was bright, illuminated by candlelight. A row of sleeping bags lay neatly rolled against one long wall. On the other side, a tall, willowy woman sat in a chair, a semicircle of unmasked children around her. Her face was partially obscured by a white half-mask that eclipsed her eyes and did nothing to hide her gentle smile as she read to them from a tattered book. All eight tiny faces were transfixed as she quietly told them a story about a group of mice who went on a plane trip to see their grandmother. Danse felt a tug at his heartstrings as the woman wove the simple tale from a world no one in the room had ever known. He understood the power of hope, the need to remember the past. But what good did a fanciful story like this have? How could something so trite possibly prepare these children for the dangers of the world as it was now? Surely, it was better to read them manuals, even if they were dryer than a tale of mouse aviators.

The masked woman looked up as the Paladin and the scientist approached, prompting several of the children to do the same.

"Dr. Li!" cried one of the bigger girls, who couldn't have been much older than ten. She waved to the scientist. "Are you gonna let me help in the lab again today?"

Madison nodded. "In a little while, Anne," she said, "as long as you did your chores."

The girl smiled warmly at her. "I even helped feed the brahmin!" she exclaimed.

"Then as long as your Guardians say it's okay," Madison replied.

The masked woman nodded. "Anne's all yours this afternoon," she said in a melodic voice.

A stocky lad with green eyes as wide as dinner plates gasped in shock as he noticed Danse. "You're the soldier, aren't you?" he asked eagerly, a wide grin bringing his dimples to life.

Danse nodded. "Affirmative."

The boy ran to him, ignoring the soft protest of the masked woman. He tugged on Danse's arm. "Cool! You're really, really tall!"

Another boy, this one thin and nervous-looking, took Danse's other hand. "Come sit with us," he demanded in a soft, even voice. "Miss Rita's reading a good one today!"

"It's about planes!" the first boy interjected. "Did you know that people used to fly all the time before the War?"

The Paladin looked sheepishly over at the masked woman. "I'm not certain if I'm permitted to join you," he protested.

The woman laughed. "Sorry, Paladin. The children can be very persistent. You can sit with us, if you'd like."

Danse looked around. All of the children were staring expectantly at him, their eyes bright with curiosity. He sighed. "As long as I won't be a distraction," he said, resigned.

"I'm afraid it's too late for that," Rita replied. "But if the children want you here, so do I. They are the most important asset we have, after all."

The Paladin sat behind the group awkwardly. Within moments, one of the smaller children toddled over to him, climbing onto his lap. She stared up at him with large brown eyes full of wonder. "Hi!" she chirped, grinning. "I'm Grace!"

"Hello, Grace," he replied nervously as she nestled against him. It was peculiar, having such young children around him. Danse's only real experience with young people had been with the Squires, and they knew better than to cling to him in such an informal manner. All the same, he had to admit that it was nice to have such a dramatic change from the environment outside the tent. The adults were inherently suspicious of him. The children, on the other hand, could not seem to trust him more. There was something reassuring about that.

The two boys fell in at either side, still clinging to his hands with their small, sticky fingers. The larger one frowned at Grace. "Go away, booger!"

She pouted. "I was here first, Robby!"

"Was not! I saw him first," the boy protested. "You always do this whenever there's a new Guardian."

"I don't think he's a Guardian," the other boy replied. "If he was, why'd they lock him up? And where's his mask?"

"Yeah!" Grace replied, sticking out her tongue. "You're just mad 'cause Mr. Ian gave me gum an' I didn't share!"

"Shut up!" Robby hissed. "I didn't even want it."

"Children, enough!" Rita exclaimed firmly. "Remember Rule 2?"

Robby sighed. "Take care of the weaker ones," he recited with a frown. "Fine." He sat calmly next to Danse, pouting slightly at the younger girl.

"Very good, Robby," the masked woman replied softly. "I know it doesn't seem fair, but if we all take care of the people weaker than us, everyone gets taken care of. I'm sure our visitor will be happy to spend time with all of you later, isn't that right, Paladin?" Before he realized what he was doing, Danse nodded, much to the delight of the children. Rita smiled warmly at him. "Excellent. Now, if everyone settles down, we can keep reading."

The children quieted down, though several more approached Danse and sat themselves around him. It was strangely calming, being so readily accepted by the youngest members of the community. Danse had always been fond of children, but he had always been somewhat afraid that the feeling would not be mutual. After all, he had a reputation among the lower ranks for being intimidating and aloof. Even though many of the Squires seemed to admire him, they also seemed to give him a wide berth. He could never remember receiving a greeting like this from anyone before, and while the whole situation was perplexing, it was also comforting in a strange way.

As Rita's soft voice continued the tale of the flying mice, he thought again of Myra, of all their possible futures. Did he want children with her? That answer came quickly. Of course he did. While it would be a new experience for him, the Paladin definitely wanted to be a father, to be there for his progeny in a way that his own parents never had been. It was an intimidating prospect, but parenthood was a challenge he eagerly awaited facing head-on.

A more disturbing thought surfaced, bubbling up from his core like thick, viscous oil. Myra had already been a mother. What if...what if she did not want to have children again? Until now, Danse had not considered that possibility. Before she had gone to the Institute, he had always assumed that after she was reunited with her son, she would be eager to be the mother the War had prevented her from being. But now, knowing who her son had become, knowing how much she'd truly lost...what if she was unable to even contemplate trying again? Or what if she simply didn't want to have Danse's children? That was a real possibility, after what she'd been through.

Myra loved him. She had said as much. But a few stolen kisses and quiet moments were not necessarily enough to hang a future on. Danse had assumed that now that they were together, things would progress in a certain way. He realized now that had been assuming a lot. What if Myra's view of their future was something completely different? How would they handle such divergent views? It was one of many conversations they desperately needed to have, when Myra was coming back. If she was coming back. If she was still alive.

His head ached, the dull throb he'd been ignoring for days reasserting itself. He hissed sharply as his vision blurred. Why now? He hadn't had access to his medication, of course, but he'd barely been taking the pills. Since the cabin, he'd found that he hadn't needed them as often. So why was he in such agony now?

Grace shifted in Danse's lap, tugging on his arm. "Mr. Paladin?" she whispered. "You ok?"

He looked down at the small girl, his eyes softening as they met hers. "It's merely a headache," he murmured. "I'll be well soon."

The girl nodded. "Grown-ups get those a lot," she replied sagely, her face hilariously stoic.

Madison was suddenly at his side, her eyes narrowed in concern. "Danse? What's wrong?"

"His head hurts," Grace said.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Dr. Li said, her eyes wide as she knelt beside him. "How bad is it?"

"I'm completely fine," Danse muttered, embarrassed. Even as he protested, another surge of pain flooded his brain, and he groaned.

"That doesn't sound fine," the scientist protested. "We need to get you lying down." She turned to Rita. "Can we use your room?"

The masked woman nodded. "Tim, can you get Mr. Gregory?" The lean boy shot to his feet, running out of the tent. Rita smiled softly at the children. "Everyone else, go play outside for a little bit, okay?" The children, with the exception of Grace and Robby, filed out of the tent. The two remaining children clung to Danse, doing their best to comfort him. Rita, however, pulled them away. "I mean everyone," she said sternly. "Our visitor needs quiet."

Grace shook her head. "I can help!" the small girl argued.

"You know what would really help?" Dr. Li said quietly. "If you went to Miss Jenny and asked her for some of those wild berries we found yesterday."

"I'll bet those would make Mr. Paladin feel better," Robby agreed, taking Grace's hand. "Let's go!"

"That's not my nam...ugh," Danse protested. He tried to watch them go, but he had a hard time focusing on their forms. The whole room was spinning slightly, the candlelight flickering sickeningly. "I...this is unfortunate," he grumbled.

"I told you to take better care of yourself," Dr. Li chided, helping him to his feet. "Come on. There's a cot in the back room." She tucked herself under his right arm as Rita took his left. Together, they managed to half-drag the Paladin across the length of the tent and through another set of flaps.

"This is hardly necessary," the Paladin mumbled, the words loose and strange in his mouth as though he was speaking with extra teeth. "It's merely a headache, not the plague."

Dr. Li shook her head. "I'm not so certain," she murmured in reply, studying him as they laid him out on the bed. "How long have you had them?"

"Since...ow...since I arrived in the Commonwealth," Danse groaned. "I have medication that helps."

The scientist pulled his right eyelid back, analyzing his pupil. "Dilated. Just like the others," she said to Rita, her face pale. "But there's no way that should be possible. Unless...no."

"Others?" The Paladin asked, confused.

Madison smiled slightly as she looked at the other eye. "Don't worry about that. Just rest. Gregory will be here soon with medicine. It won't fix things, but it'll take the edge off."

"You know something, don't you?" Danse said, struggling to sit up. "Madison, what is going on here?"

She shook her head, retreating back through the tent flaps. "Don't let him get up, or he might hurt himself," she told Rita. "I need to check my files."

The masked woman sighed, carefully tightening restraints around Danse's arms. "This is for your protection," she soothed. "Please don't struggle. No one here wants to hurt you. We only want to help."

Danse was about to reply when a tall man swept into the room, his upper face hidden behind a black, crow-beaked mask. He was clothed in long, dark green robes that were tattered and patched so much that they seemed almost like feathers as the rags moved with each step. "I thought we agreed on no restraints, Rita," he chided in a rich, gravely voice. Danse recognized it as the voice from the ruins. He was the one who had demanded their surrender.

"But, Gregory, he's -" Rita protested. Danse's ears perked up. So this was Gregory, Peregrine's leader. The Paladin wasn't certain what he'd been expecting, but it definitely wasn't the man who leaned over his bedside, strange blue-grey eyes peering through the beaked mask.

"He is our guest," Gregory said, his warm voice tinged with just a hint of threat as he brushed Danse's hair away from his temple, feeling at it roughly. "Rule 1, Rita."

"Be compassionate above all," she murmured, bowing slightly. "I'm sorry, Gregory. I failed to acknowledge how the Paladin might feel about being restrained. It's just...he has the headaches."

"I'm aware of his condition," the masked man replied coolly. "We kept him isolated to prevent this. Where is Dr. Li?"

"Looking for answers," Rita said. "He's had them for a long time. Before he came to us. Maybe months before."

Gregory seemed to stiffen at her words. "And his veins haven't blackened?" he asked.

She shook her head. "We haven't drawn blood to check for certain, but..." she looked up at Gregory, her eyes wide behind her mask. "Maybe he's resistant?"

Danse groaned. "Tell me what you know," he growled.

Gregory sighed, pulling a syringe from his robes and preparing it carefully. "Not yet. You have eyes but do not see. When your ears are ready to hear, then we will talk. Now, you need to rest. This will help you sleep."

The Paladin cried out in alarm as the needle entered his neck, desperately trying to throw the taller man off of him. But even as he struggled, he felt his strength sapped, his vision fading to grey. Finally, all that remained was the void.

* * *

"T! Hey, wake up!" Myra's voice called, distant and strange. The Paladin's head felt muddled, like his brain was floating in a warm pool of milk. He groaned, struggling to open his eyes. The world was bright, so bright it stung his eyes, and he covered them with a hiss of pain. Myra laughed, her soft fingers pulling at his hand. "Come on, sleepyhead! Are you planning on staying in bed all day?"

"I..." he started, his voice raspy in his dry throat. "Where am I?"

"You're in our quarters," she replied. "But we don't have time for this. Elder Maxson's waiting for us, remember? If you don't get up, we're going to be late!"

"Our quarters?" Danse asked, confused. The Paladin's eyes slowly adjusted to the brightness, and he glanced around the small metal-walled room cautiously. These were his private quarters, just as he remembered them. His desk stood next to his bed, only slightly cluttered with paperwork that he hadn't yet filed. All of his belongings, from his emergency supplies right down to his last piece of spare ammunition seemed to be accounted for. The only thing out of place was the lovely Knight who was perched on the corner of his bed, grinning at him. He smiled sleepily up at her, brushing her hair from her face. "I'm certain Arthur wouldn't mind it if we were delayed for just a few minutes," he murmured softly.

Myra blushed, her green eyes wide behind her glasses. "Paladin Danse? Choosing to be late? Did you hit your head or something?" She yelped in shock as the Paladin pulled her down next to him, his lips pressed sweetly against hers. He knew this was a dream. It had to be. Myra was in the Institute, after all. But that didn't mean that he wasn't going to enjoy this opportunity all the same. After all, who knew when he'd have another chance?

It took her a moment to catch up, but Myra returned the kiss passionately, her fingers knotted in his thick, dark hair. Danse held her close, savoring the feeling of her lips on his. He would give anything to stay locked like this forever. Myra gasped softly against him as his fingers played down the front of her flightsuit, softly skimming over areas that he had still only dreamed of exploring. She repaid him in kind, her nails firm but gentle as they ran down his back. Danse whimpered slightly in spite of himself as she pulled away, her breathing ragged.

Myra grinned down at him, her skin flushed. "You certainly seem awake to me," she panted. "As much as I'd love to stay, you know how Maxson gets if he's kept waiting."

Danse groaned, sitting up. "Oh, very well," he grumbled, easing out of bed.

Myra kissed him gently on the cheek, squeezing his hand tightly before releasing it. "You could try to muster up some more enthusiasm, Danse. It's not every day your wife gets promoted."

"Wife?" he asked, his eyes wide. "We're married? Outstanding!"

She chuckled, reaching up on her tiptoes to muss his hair. "And here I thought the last two years were pretty damn memorable. I'd be insulted if you didn't seem so happy about it."

"I am," he replied quickly. "Unbelievably happy. I'm sorry if I seem confused. Perhaps I'm more exhausted than I thought."

Myra walked over to one of the lockers that lined the walls, extracting a clean flight suit. "Exhausted or not, you should get changed. We're meeting on the flight deck in ten minutes."

Danse frowned. "I thought the command deck was more customary for promotions," he murmured as he unzipped his old suit.

"That's what I thought, too," she replied. "But apparently Maxson wants to do it at the airport so more people can see it."

The Paladin nodded. In a strange way, what she was saying made sense. The Minutemen had seen Myra as a symbol of unity, after all, a herald of Old World ideals. It wasn't that strange to think that Arthur was planning on using her in the same way. Danse quickly pulled his new flight suit on before stepping into his power armor. He felt all his anxieties slip away as the pneumatic hatch hissed shut behind him. It felt comforting to be back in his steel shell, even if this was just a dream. He looked over at Myra, studying her carefully. She looked unusually elegant in her flight suit, her long silvery hair pulled up in a high ponytail that showed off her swanlike neck. The scars she normally bore on her body were gone, magicked away by the power of the dreaming world. If she had been wearing that green flannel shirt and her old cap, Myra would have looked almost exactly like she had on the day they met, when she'd thundered into the courtyard of the Cambridge Police Station with her tiny pistol and wild eyes.

Myra stared up at him quizzically. "Do I have something on my face?"

He shook his head, fighting the urge to scoop her up. "You look perfect," he murmured.

"I usually do," she teased. "Are you ready?"

"Affirmative," Danse replied. Myra took his hand in hers, leading him out of the room and into the hall.

At first, Danse tried to pull away from her, his instincts telling him that it wasn't appropriate for others to see them together like this. But Myra gripped his armored hand still tighter, shaking her head incredulously at him. "T, we've been over this. You don't have to worry about decorum anymore. Everyone knows we're together. Just relax."

The Paladin nodded, though the tension in his gut remained. He should be enjoying this currently forbidden closeness while his dreams permitted it, shouldn't he? Here, in his mind, he had everything he wanted, could do whatever he wanted. So why did he still feel like all of this was wrong, somehow? There was something off in the way Myra was carrying herself, in the way the deck felt under his feet. But this was a dream. Perhaps that was throwing off his perception. He exhaled deeply, trying to banish his growing uncertainty. No matter what was happening in the real world, he shouldn't let his concerns wreck a perfectly good dream, right?

Within moments, he found himself on the flight deck. Arthur stood beside his personal vertibird, his piercing steely eyes gazing off towards the horizon. A gust of wind caught the bottom of his greatcoat, sending the dark brown leather flapping like the wings of a great predatory bird. Still, his attention did not falter from that distant point until Danse stood next to him.

"What are you looking at so intently?" Danse asked.

Arthur sighed, his eyes flicking to the Paladin. "It's strange, isn't it? How quickly some things can change?"

Danse's brow furrowed. "I suppose," he replied. "Though I don't know what you're referring to."

The Elder watched him carefully. "You don't need to play coy, Danse. I know you feel it too. Something foul is drifting in on the wind. We don't have much time before it consumes us all." Arthur's frown softened slightly as he gestured to the aircraft. "We should depart at once. The troops are waiting for us."

The Paladin nodded, clambering aboard the vertibird. He reached downwards, offering a hand up to Myra. She hesitated for a moment, something deeply sad resting in her emerald eyes. For the briefest of moments, Danse was sure she was going to say something, but she took his offered hand and joined him silently in the bay. Arthur clambered up after her, his face unreadable.

The craft departed as soon as the trio were on board, releasing from its docking clamps with a shudder. Danse instinctively pulled Myra close, his heart pounding. He supposed it was only natural, given that his most recent flying experience had ended in flames and carnage. Myra stood stiffly beside him, her eyes fixed on Maxson. The Elder watched her in turn, scowling slightly. The Paladin looked between them, confused. As the vertibird left its station, Danse's confusion only grew.

"I though we were headed to the airport," he said. "Why are we flying out to sea?"

Maxson looked at him, the heavy darkness of rage in his eyes. "You betrayed me, Danse. You were my closest friend, and you betrayed me and everything the Brotherhood stands for."

Danse's stomach clenched. "I don't know what you're talking about!" he objected. "I would never betray you!"

"I wish I could believe you," Arthur growled. "But you've lied to me for so long as it is. I can't trust you, and that makes you a liability. Larimer, it's time."

Myra pulled herself free from Danse's arms, easing _Righteous Authority_ off of her back and pointing it at the Paladin. Her hands shook as she took aim. "I'm so sorry, T," she whispered. "I know it's not your fault. But this is the only way. The Brotherhood has to survive." The Paladin tried to say something, anything to change their minds, but it was like his mouth was suddenly glued shut. He took a step forward, reaching for Myra, but she backed up against the bulkhead, her eyes bright with pain. "I will always love you," she continued softly. "Forgive me."

Maxson sighed. "As if you need forgiveness for doing your duty."

Myra nodded, the color draining from her eyes. Her mouth twisted into a terrifying, toothy grin as she pulled herself together. "You're absolutely right, Elder," she growled, her grip tightening on her gun. "Your choice, Danse. I can shoot you, or you can jump. We should be over the drop-off now. No way you'd make it to shore. Without a helmet, you'll drown. Either way, it's all a monster like you deserves."

Maxson smirked, closing in on them in the tight space. "He'll choose the laser round," the Elder speculated. "It's the more 'honorable' option."

"As if this thing has honor," she replied with a hollow laugh. Maxson echoed her amusement, something deep and wicked in their mirth. She lowered her weapon. "Perhaps we shouldn't even give him the choice. It would be so much better to make him do it himself."

The Elder grinned wider, an expression Danse had never seen on his friend's face before. It chilled him to the bone. "And what do you have in mind?" he asked.

Myra grabbed Arthur by the lapels of his coat, pulling him in for a rough kiss. The Elder snarled past her mouth, biting her lower lip. She gasped in pain and pleasure, arching her back. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," she gasped huskily.

"All you had to do was beg," Maxson replied, his breathing ragged as he pinned her against the wall of the vertibird with his body. "You've always been mine."

Danse watched, powerless. This wasn't real. None of it was real. He was just having a nightmare. Myra loved him. She would never betray him like this. Would she?

Arthur's hands cupped her breasts through the thin material of her flight suit, and Myra shuddered at his touch, her hair falling in her face. She grinned dangerously, her hand slipping under the Elder's coat.

The Paladin looked away, the bile rising in his throat as the two people he loved the most descended on each other like ravenous dogs. It wasn't real. It wasn't. None of this made any sense. So why did it hurt so damn much? And why did he feel so guilty, knowing that he hadn't done anything wrong?

He glanced back at Myra and the Elder, both of whom were too wrapped up in each other to even notice him any more. He could overpower them both so easily, could take control of the vertibird and escape. But what if Arthur was telling the truth? What if he did deserve this?

The Paladin closed his eyes before taking a running leap out of the aircraft. After an eternity of weightlessness, he hit the water like a ton of bricks, the wind knocked roughly out of him as he sank into the briny depths. His last thoughts were of Myra, and the look of cruel desperation in her eyes as she clung to Arthur. That burned far worse than the hunger for air in his lungs ever could.

* * *

Danse gasped greedily for air, his lungs heaving and his body immobile. He struggled fitfully, trying to sit up, but he was lashed down and unable to break free from his bonds.

As Danse slowly regained his bearings, he heard the low murmur of voices in the next room. He tried desperately to hear what was being said, but in his muddled state, many of the words were incomprehensible. Instead, he focused on grounding himself. He was safe, or at least he wasn't dead. The nightmare was over. He was in Peregrine, receiving medical treatment for his headaches.

The Paladin winced as he felt the firm leather straps of the bed restraints cutting into his arms. He'd thought that Gregory had said not to restrain him. What had changed?

"...might be awake," he heard Madison say. The fabric wall moved aside as the scientist strode into the little room, her smile only slightly insincere. "Paladin? Are you feeling any better?"

"Are you...ugh, are you looking for an honest assessment?" Danse croaked weakly.

"I'm sorry for the restraints," she continued, unbuckling the belts carefully. "You were thrashing around so much that we were afraid you were going to hurt yourself. I'll ask Rita to bring some cream for your wrists."

"That won't be necessary," the Paladin replied, rubbing his tender wrists gingerly. "I've experienced far worse discomfort."

Gregory entered the room, his beaked mask tilted downwards as he stared at Danse. "I'm glad you're awake," he crooned. "Is your head still bothering you?"

Danse shook his head. "No. The pain has subsided for now."

"Excellent!" the nomad exclaimed. "You are our guest. It wouldn't do to make you suffer. Do you want to eat? We don't have much prepared, I'm afraid, but the children left berries for you if you would like some."

The Paladin shook his head. "I'm not particularly hungry," he replied.

"Rough sleep?" Gregory asked, crouching beside the bed. "What did you see?"

"No offense," Danse retorted, "but I fail to see how that is any of your concern."

The raven-masked man chuckled. "That bad? I'm sorry to hear it, Paladin. The nightmares really are relentless, aren't they? I'm not certain which is worse, the headaches or the visions. Frankly, I'm amazed you haven't gone completely insane." His eyes darkened slightly, and he cleared his throat. "Some would say that your entire organization is insane, truth be told. But I prefer to handle people on a case by case basis." He stood with a sigh, turning to Dr. Li. "I'll let you handle this. Come get me if there are any further...complications."

Gregory slipped quietly out of the tent, his green robes fluttering behind him. Dr. Li sighed. "Sorry about him. Gregory's a good leader, but I'm afraid he's too cryptic for his own good. Most synths are, in my experience."

Danse frowned, struggling to his feet. "Gregory is a synth? Are you sure?"

Dr. Li sighed heavily. "Damn my big mouth. Yes."

"How long have you...does everyone know?" Danse asked, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. He'd been trapped here for over a week, in the custody of a synth abomination? This was unacceptable.

"You could say that," the scientist replied. "After all, most of them are synths as well."

The Paladin's heart sank. No. It wasn't possible! He knew that there were plenty of synths in the Commonwealth, but a whole community of them, right under the Brotherhood's nose? And Danse had surrendered to them? Arthur would lose his mind over this. "And you knew. You've lived among these things for weeks, knowing what they were. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I knew you'd react like this," she replied coolly. "I thought, if you could see what their lives were like, if you could understand the good work they were doing...but I didn't think you had the headaches, Danse."

"Why does that matter?" he growled. "Why would you protect these...these machines?"

Madison sighed. "They're not just machines, Paladin. These people, Gregory's family, they're good people. And they need my help. If I don't find a way to fix this...situation of theirs, there could be serious consequences."

"What situation?" Danse asked. "You keep talking in circles! Just fill me in on the situation so I can make a tactical assessment!"

She shook her head. "I can't. I'm sorry. Please, Danse. Just trust me when I say that you're probably safer here than anywhere else. Can't you see that? Even though all humans have brought them since the day they were created is pain and confusion and oppression, they've chosen to try and make a better world for these kids, for everyone they meet. These people won't hurt you. At least not intentionally."

"These _things_ are abominations, monsters of technology that has once again gone too far," Danse shot back. "For all I know, they're training these children as human weapons. Synths can't be trusted."

"And they say the same thing about Brotherhood soldiers!" Madison exclaimed. "Gregory took a huge risk bringing you here. He wanted to help you. To help Myra."

Danse scowled. "And Myra is back in Institute hands, because of them. Because of you." He grabbed a metal tent stake, pulling it from the dry earth with a groan. The Paladin charged through the fabric door into the room beyond, gripping his makeshift weapon tightly.

"Where are you going?" Dr. Li asked, chasing after him.

"I'm finding my belongings," Danse growled, "and then I'm going to report in to the Brotherhood."

"You can't!" she exclaimed. "These people aren't the enemy! They've done nothing to harm you, even when you were at their mercy! If you tell Elder Maxson about Peregrine, you know he'll destroy it."

"Fortunately for your horrifying robot commune, my first priority is getting Myra back," the Paladin said, searching the children's tent for supplies. "Until she's safe, I have no intention of splitting the Brotherhood's focus." He frowned at the scientist. "I suppose that was your plan all along, wasn't it, Madison?"

She shook her head. "I promise, I only wanted to help her. I owed Myra a great deal. And like I said, she's far too precious to risk." Dr. Li sighed. "I'll talk to Gregory about getting your belongings back. But you have to do this the smart way. You can't fight your way out. Not in your condition."

Danse pondered her words carefully. "You're right," he admitted finally, his arm falling to his side. "It would not be tactically advantageous for me to face off against such odds. Not presently."

"Thank you," Madison said, taking the stake from him. "Still, I wish you'd stay. It's not safe in the Brotherhood, Danse. I wish you'd realize that. We could use your help here, if you were willing."

"I will never knowingly assist a synth," the Paladin snarled. "And I thought better of you. I really did."

Madison watched him, her eyes uncharacteristically resigned. "The feeling's mutual, Paladin. I always believed you were one of the good ones. Don't let me down. Please, give us a chance to prove to you that Peregrine is not a threat."

He shook his head. "All synths are threats. That much is clear. I need to report back, or you will have far bigger problems than just me."

She nodded. "Stay here. I'll talk to Gregory about an exit plan." Madison frowned. "When you see Elder Maxson, tell him...well, just tell him I won't be coming back to work for him for a while."

Danse sighed. "I could just force you to come with me."

She scoffed. "Not every problem can be solved with a laser rifle, Danse. And I'd die before I went anywhere I didn't want to be." With that, she slipped out of the tent, leaving Danse alone with his thoughts.

* * *

**_A/N: Thanks for your patience while I sorted this chapter out! Things are definitely getting strange in our part of the Commonwealth. Why are the synths of Peregrine so afraid of headaches? And are they somehow connected to the Watchers?_**

**_We only have one chapter left in this volume, but rest assured that more will be on the way soon!_**

**_Given that my posting schedule has decreased with my new job, I was wondering if you guys would rather I continue my tradition of a short side-story between volumes or just roll right into the next volume. Please let me know your thoughts. Or, you know, if you don't care either way, that's cool too!_**

**_NEXT CHAPTER: Myra begins to trust Clayton. But will that be enough to change her mind about the Institute?_**


	21. The Fundamental Flaw

**21\. The Fundamental Flaw**

**_Myra begins to trust Clayton after he helps her escape from Dr. Ayo. But is he willing to let her return to the surface?_**

* * *

White. Stark, boring, predictable white. Clayton had been staring at the ceiling above his bed for what felt like hours, trying to find some flaw in the seamless tilework, something interesting. Instead, all he was met with was the same sterile surface he'd woken to every day for as long as he could remember. He sighed heavily, rolling onto his side. It had been hours since the courser had unceremoniously dumped him in his quarters. If Clayton knew Dr. Ayo half as well as he believed, the SRB director had ordered the muscular synth to stay and guard the door. There was no escape. No saving Myra. Not in any straightforward way, at least.

The biologist listened carefully for any indication of his guard's presence. As he expected, if the synth was still there, he didn't make a sound. He should at least try to save Myra, shouldn't he? Or should he wait for Dr. Ayo to get bored? It wasn't like she was in mortal danger. Clayton didn't believe that Dr. Ayo would hurt Myra. At least not anywhere that would leave a visible mark. But the psychological damage of interrogation might be too much for her in her present state. Also, she certainly didn't need more reasons to hate the Institute. If Dr. Holdren was going to change her mind, was going to salvage this project one last time, he needed to do something. But what?

He was fairly physically fit, seeing as he worked on his feet most of the time, but Clayton wasn't exactly an athlete. He'd always preferred to exercise his mind rather than his body. Even if he had the element of surprise on his side, there was no chance he'd be able to take down a courser. He worried, not for the first time, what would happen if the SRB turned on one of the other divisions. If Justin Ayo wanted, he could probably take over the entire facility without breaking a sweat. That was a horrifying prospect. Not only was the man a complete tool, but he honestly wasn't Director material. There was a reason why most of his staff were synths. No one else would put up with the man.

He smiled at that thought, his fingers playing with the chain he wore under his uniform as he tried to calm his nerves. As his hand brushed across the small, twisted piece of circuity that dangled against his collarbone, he felt a little better. He'd known failure before. He choked at the familiar taste of it, bitter and caustic. But he would not let it stand between him and success, not again. Never again. The SRB would not cost him another project while he still had breath in his body.

Clayton crept to the balcony, peering at the atrium floor stories beneath him. If he managed to fall just right, he might be able to land on the balcony beneath his. The impact would still hurt like hell, but cutting his fall in half would greatly increase his likelihood of survival. All he needed was to time it just right, and...The scientist shook his head. He was being ridiculous, coming up with plans like the ones in his comic books. The odds of him missing the landing were too high, not to mention the impracticality of preforming any type of physical stunt in his department head uniform. The white and green coat was halfway between a lab coat and a cassock, with all the impracticalities of both garments. Odds were that he'd get the hem caught on something and find himself in a far worse predicament than the one he presently faced. At least being kept prisoner in his own quarters was less embarrassing.

So the biologist couldn't fight the SRB head-on, and he couldn't take a dive out of his window. But there were more ways to win a battle than brute force or agility alone. He stalked quietly over to his computer, trying not to draw attention to himself. Clayton might be under observation, but that didn't mean that all of his allies were. Given the frenzy with which Dr. Ayo had been approaching Myra's interrogation, he likely hadn't thought to get in Dr. Binet's way as well. Alan would know what to do. The engineer was as resourceful as he was eccentric, and he and Dr. Holdren had been working in tandem for long enough now that the biologist was confident in his colleague's judgement...well, more or less. Alan still romanticized synth-kind a bit too much in public. Dangerous ideas, like the rights of synthetic humans, were best discussed behind closed doors. Clayton wasn't going to ever make that error in judgement again. He typed furiously, substituting words almost as naturally as breathing. All Dr. Holdren needed was to fit his message into a boring-sounding email. It was as safe as anything in the entire Institute was likely to be, and the best way to save Myra...so long as Alan read his emails in time. Human error. That had always been the downfall of great ideas. Clayton reread the message, making sure that Alan would understand it:

_Alan,_

_Grain samples have been preforming subpar in hydroponic table C. I know it's not your area, but you know machines better than anyone. Can you please run a level-3 maintenance check on table C and have someone check the others just in case? I would hate to have a flood. Also, did you borrow one of my applicators last time you visited? I can't find it anywhere. The one with the black tape on the rim. Please bring it back if you have it. It's been on the fritz lately and I wouldn't want you to get shocked._

_-C. Holdren_

He smiled proudly to himself as he sent the message. Alan would have to be a complete idiot not to understand the situation from that email, but to anyone else, it would just look like a routine message.

Now, all he needed to do was wait. Wait, and hope that everything would go according to plan. In the meantime, maybe he'd get lucky and find a speck of dirt on his ceiling. He wasn't convinced, but even a rational man like Clayton Holdren could dream. And looking for dirt was a more comforting pastime than other things he could be doing, that was for sure.

Holdren hated being alone. That was the main reason he avoided spending too much time in his quarters, why he kept his staff nearby when he had to work late. It wasn't that he was lonely, exactly. He had long since divorced himself from any notion that he would ever know true companionship. He just wasn't built for it. No, it wasn't loneliness that kept him surrounded by the hum of hydroponics and the endless chatter of his associates. If only that were the case.

Clayton prided himself on being above regret. Backwards thinking was the enemy of scientific progress, after all. Still, he was human, and his nature saddled him with more weaknesses than he cared to admit. For the most part, a laser focus on his job kept him from reminiscing on his past mistakes. But in the cold stillness of solitude, it was harder for him to ignore the doubts and sorrows that nagged at him. He'd been getting better. At least until Father had unilaterally decided to move the Fifth World into the next stage. Until he'd woken Myra up.

Now, Dr. Holdren wasn't sure what he was feeling, and that was so much worse than pretending that he felt nothing at all. Part of him was overjoyed that Myra had found her way into the Institute. She was truly exceptional, brilliant, strong-willed...a consummate survivor, as he'd hoped she'd be. But she had nothing but resentment for the Institute, for their work. Meeting Father had devastated her in ways none of them had predicted. Maybe Alan was right. Maybe it would have been better if she'd never made it inside the facility.

The facility-wide intercom crackled to life, startling Clayton out of his dark thoughts. Frankly, he was grateful for the interruption.

"Dr. Ayo," Father's soft but commanding voice called over the speaker, "would you please report to my office at once?"

Clayton grinned. "Alan, you magnificent son of a gun," he murmured to himself. He adjusted his lab coat, making his way to the door. "I'm free to go," he snipped at the courser. "Your boss just got called in."

The synth looked confused. "I have orders to keep you here, sir," he replied brusquely. "Until Acting Director Ayo tells me otherwise, you are to remain in this room. Try and get some sleep. It's getting quite late, after all."

The biologist sighed. That was the real issue with synths, especially the more loyal ones. They might appear human, might even act independently sometimes, but in the end, they were still ruled by their programming. Coursers in particular were hard-wired to follow orders to the letter. It was extremely difficult to change their minds once they had been given a command. Until Clayton had proof that he was allowed to leave, he was a prisoner. "Fine. I'll try and get some more work done on my home equipment," he muttered, slinking back inside and sliding his door shut.

He sat at his desk once more, frowning at his computer screen. All of the work he really wanted to do was back in Bioscience. The only thing he had access to currently was some stupid request Dr. Secord had sent over from the SRB. Given the current situation, he'd put that one on the back burner while he'd focused on fixing Myra. Was this Ayo's plan all along, to force his hand and make him actually take a look at whatever busy work the Synth Retention Bureau was sending his way? Clayton wouldn't put it past Justin in the slightest, knowing that sneaky bastard.

The biologist opened the file Alana had sent over, and his eyes widened as he read the reports. "Watchers assaulted and destroyed a synth patrol?" he read, disbelieving, under his breath. "A flock was seen at the site of several massacres?" Clayton frowned. The Watchers had been one of his projects, bio-mechanical spies that could access areas no humanoid synth agent could hope to. The original concept had also utilized artificial mice and ants, but the giant, mutated forms of these animals had pretty much wiped out the artificial populations Bioscience had introduced into the Commonwealth. Only the flying Watchers had endured, feeding information back to the SRB constantly. Well, until recently, apparently.

He had not programmed the Watchers to kill. Far from it, in fact. They were designed to be purely passive observers so as to not threaten the denizens of the wasteland. Dr. Ayo had requested that they have some form of defensive capabilities, but Dr. Holdren had refused to augment his avian creations with weapons. Like the birds who lived before the war, the Watchers had only their beaks and talons to defend themselves. Now, apparently, they were also using these natural tools to attack anyone or anything that they desired.

Clayton frowned, studying the data. This shouldn't have been possible. Even if humanoid synths had begun to demonstrate something approaching free will, the Watchers had far less complex brains. They should not be self-actualizing, and certainly not violently. There must have been an inherent flaw in the design. But where? He'd checked everything himself, repeatedly. They had run thousands of tests and simulations. If there had been a flaw in their design, he would have caught it. So how had this happened?

An image rose, unbidden, of a young woman with long chestnut hair that terminated just above the small of her back. She sat perched on the edge of one of the hydroponics tables, laughing as she stroked the head of a synthetic crow. The green of her lab coat reflected in her catlike eyes as the creature croaked happily up at her, cocking its head to better direct her ministrations. His gut wrenched as she met his gaze, her laughter fading to an easy, open smile.

Clayton groaned in frustration, rubbing his eyes to try and erase the image. He was completely exhausted. That was the only reason why his mind was tormenting him so. He stripped down to his underwear, shuddering slightly as the cold air found his bare skin. This wouldn't do. Not at all. He had to stay objective.

It had been years since the last time he'd thought of her so clearly. Why now, when all he had to gain from the memory was pain, when all he had to lose was everything he'd been working for? With a heavy sigh, he turned out the lights in his room, crawling under his covers and hoping for a dreamless sleep.

* * *

Days passed like a whirlwind, and Clayton's duties kept him busier than ever. He was closing in on a breakthrough with the Watchers. He could feel it. Whatever had happened to the primitive synths was surely fixable. He just had to figure out what exactly had caused the shift in their behavior.

The biologist hissed in annoyance as his scalpel slipped, spraying his uniform with dark, oil-like fluid. It reeked of rotten flesh and a sickening sweetness that Clayton couldn't quite place. Foul grayish-purple flesh slid from manufactured bones, as though recoiling from the machinery inside. He didn't want to think of what kind of horror show awaited him inside the unfortunate bird's brain.

The dead Watcher before him had been taken from one of the "problem flocks" still in storage. He'd euthanized it himself just moments before, so it wasn't as if the body had been festering. This level of decay was extremely unusual for a fresh corpse. So had its body been rotting while the unfortunate creature was still alive?

Clayton choked back the gorge that rose in his throat. He wasn't going to vomit, damn it. He was a professional. Still, of all the things he'd studied over the 29 years he'd been on this earth, this specimen was easily the most disgusting. He could be forgiven for struggling through the necropsy.

With a shaky breath, Dr. Holdren scooped into the fluid-filled abdominal cavity of the Watcher with his fingers, trying to extract what remained of the internal organs. The intestines, stomach, and gizzard, sickly-orange and slimy, slipped out easily, and he placed them delicately in a sterile pouch to study in depth later. The heart popped out with a twist of his hand, a hard, blackened marble-like structure. The lungs, at least, seemed normal, though he still wanted to study them more in depth. Clayton set these aside as well, confused at the evidence before him. While the deterioration of the Watcher's biological structures was unusual, it hardly explained the sudden violence exhibited by the biomechanical birds. Something was eluding him, and Dr. Holdren hated things that eluded him. He sighed, reaching for a bonesaw to carefully cut away at the Watcher's skull.

"Clayton, are you in here?" The voice startled him, and he winced as he sliced through his glove, savaging his index finger. He dropped his tools, running for a nearby medkit. Myra. What was she doing here? He hadn't seen her since the day Dr. Ayo had come for her. Not that he was trying to. "Clayton?" Myra called again, and for a moment, it wasn't her voice he heard. Another message, so similar and yet so unlike hers echoed underneath, a rogue signal.

_"Clay...I'm so cold..."_

Dr. Holdren shook his head, trying to shake the sound free. He'd been an idiot to ask her to call him by his surname. He should have known how it would affect him. Things were different now. He was older, wiser... hell, he was a department head, for goodness sake! People already didn't take him seriously because he was so young. The last thing he needed was anyone questioning his sanity, his commitment to objectivity. There was already one mad Dr. Holdren. The family name really couldn't use another.

The biologist frowned as he thought of his mother. Dr. Diane Watson-Holdren had been promising at a young age as well, before the stress of constant reinvention and the death of Clayton's father had taken every last shed of dignity from her. He had turned to Bioscience instead of following her footsteps into Advanced Systems just because he wanted to get away from her...her, and the pressure that had destroyed her. Bioscience had its own pitfalls, of course, its own challenges. But working with natural systems was soothing for Clayton. It kept him grounded, focused on reality. Most of the time.

He quickly pulled an opaque cover over his work table, hiding as much of the evidence as he could. Until he got to the bottom of the Watcher problem, no one could find out how bad the situation really was...especially not one of Myra's friends on the outside. Any problem with Institute technology might be seen as a weakness, exploited by those who wished to destroy the facility. Regardless of how much he valued Myra, Clayton couldn't forget that she was a liability as well as an asset. To do so would open the Institute up to a potential disaster.

As he quickly moved to the opposite side of the lab, Clayton saw the sliding door open. Myra rolled in gingerly, struggling a bit with the wheelchair Father had supplied her with. He couldn't imagine how she managed to navigate the various stairwells that riddled the Institute. At least there were a few elevators she could make use of, but even still, the facility wasn't exactly disability-friendly. Clayton was certain that the young woman was frustrated. He would be, if he were in her position. He wished he could let her walk freely, he really did. But the muscle relaxants he'd been crushing into her food were for her own good. Until he knew what to do about M7-97, Dr. Holdren needed to keep her close. Making her believe that she was an invalid was simply the easiest way to ensure her compliance.

Myra wheeled up to him, her deep emerald eyes bright with concern. "Dr. Holdren? Are you all right? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." She grinned sheepishly, reaching for his arm before thinking better of it and lowering her hand back to the armrest of her wheelchair. "I have that effect on people sometimes. I move too quietly. It's the main reason why I talk so much."

"I'm fine," he lied. "Sorry, it's not you," he corrected hastily. "I was working on something in my head. Things are always pretty busy around here. Not that you'd think so, considering how much time we spend literally watching grass grow." Clayton laughed weakly at his own joke before smiling warmly back at her, trying to ignore the unease in his stomach. "What can Bioscience do for you today, Miss Larimer?"

Myra sighed. "Look. I'm only going to say this once: I still don't like you, or this horrible place. But Dr. Binet told me what you did. Using my...using Father's influence to get Dr. Ayo to back off." She offered him a handshake, keeping her arm extended this time. "I...I guess I wanted to thank you. So thanks."

"Don't mention it," he replied, ignoring her hand. Touching her was the last thing he wanted to do right now. Mostly because it was pretty high up on the list of things he wanted to do, and that...that wasn't ok. He sighed, leaning over and peering through an empty microscope, squinting as he pretended to study. "Dr. Ayo's good at his job, but he's kind of a jerk. And frankly, you're not the spy type. Anyone could see that."

Even without looking, he could feel her tense up next to him. So it was true. Interesting. "I feel like I should be insulted," she grumbled.

Clayton leaned back to his full height, grabbing a nearby clipboard and jotting some nonsense on it, trying to look busy but not willing to let her see what he was really working on. "Not at all. Just, you're really honest about how you feel and things like that. You seem too sincere to be a spy. Does that make sense?"

She chuckled, snatching the clipboard away with a groan and reclining in her chair to read it. "Fifteen bottles of wonderglue?" she asked sarcastically. "Seems a bit excessive. What the hell are you boys in Bioscience up to?"

"Give that back!" he exclaimed, embarrassed at being caught. "That's official Institute business!"

"Yeah, and next you'll tell me that invisible slides are another one of the Institute's brilliant inventions," she teased. "You're avoiding me, and I'm dying to know why. Not that I mind it, really. It's just not like you."

"You don't really know me, Miss Larimer," he retorted, frustrated that she'd seen right through him. Frustrated, and frankly impressed. "Or the rest of the Institute. You've preferred to make uninformed judgement from a distance rather than risk changing your perceptions."

She snorted. "As if anything could change my opinion of this place. As soon as I get the chance, I'm going to destroy this whole cursed facility. If you're smart, you'll leave before that happens. I might not like you, Clayton, but I do owe you that much."

"And go where?" he asked. "The surface? Even if it's not as bad as everyone here believes, do you really think I'd make it out in the wasteland?"

Myra smirked. "Don't act like you don't have a contingency plan. You're smarter than that. You could, I don't know, change into normal clothes and convince people that you're a medical doctor? With the job you did on me, it's not like you don't have the chops. Most settlements would kill to have their own medic."

He nodded. "I'd be lying if I said that the thought had never occurred to me," he murmured. "But the Institute's the only home I've ever known. I'm not like you, Miss Larimer. I'm not certain I could adapt so readily."

She frowned, studying him. "Bullshit. You're not the only one who's trained to observe things, Clayton," she replied. "My father was a police officer. He taught me how to read people."

"So read me then," Dr. Holdren challenged. "Tell me everything you think you know about me. And please, don't hold back."

Myra smirked. "Are you sure you don't want me to hold back?"

He nodded. "Heaven forbid we skew the data."

She laughed, hopping with a wince up onto the desk. Myra stared directly into his eyes, holding his gaze effortlessly. Clayton's mouth felt dry. His skin crawled. Still, he couldn't bring himself to look away.

"You're confident in your abilities," she murmured after a long while, "but less so in how others perceive you. You know that people resent you for being in a position of power, and you want to prove that you earned where you're at with your own merits, not because of someone else's influence. How am I doing?"

"Uh...yeah," he replied. "That's pretty good."

"Oh, that's the easy part," she dismissed. "Let's see...you're single, and you say it's by choice, but it's not, really, is it? There's...someone. You loved her, or him...no, definitely a her. But she rejected you, and you've never gotten over it."

"Yep. That's me in a nutshell," Clayton said, his heart racing. It was terrible, being analyzed like this. How much worse it would have been if Myra had understood what really happened? A rejection would have certainly made things easier.

She eyed him incredulously. "Really? I wasn't expecting you to be so open about your personal life. I thought for sure that would bug you."

Clayton smiled slightly, focused on keeping his outward appearance as calm and affable as always. "You'd be amazed at how little shocks me, Miss Larimer. You're hardly the first woman who's pried into my personal affairs, and knowing how inquisitive most women in the Institute are, you certainly won't be the last."

Myra chuckled. "Yeah, I could see that." She cocked her head. "There's something else, though...I'm not exactly sure what it is, but you're hiding something. Something big. Not just from me, from everyone."

Dr. Holdren dropped his gaze, a surge of fear shooting through him. "You've had your fun," he muttered.

"Well, that's more like it!" she exclaimed. "What is it? Making a bid for Director behind Shaun's back?"

He shook his head. "It's really not anything that exciting, Miss Larimer." Dr. Holdren turned back to her, masking his concern as best as he could. "Now, are you hungry? I'm about ready for a break, and I heard that the kitchen's rolling out a new food supplement today."

Myra opened her mouth as if to question him further, but changed her mind. "I am pretty hungry," she agreed. "And as far as Institute scientists go, you're not the worst company, so I guess I wouldn't mind eating with you."

Clayton smiled warmly back at her, grateful that she'd agreed to let the subject drop for now. "Excellent," he replied, taking hold of the handles on the back of her wheelchair.

She looked back at him with a smirk. "I can wheel myself, Clayton."

"I know," he said gently. "But I don't want anyone thinking I'm neglecting your care. Could you imagine the uproar if anything happened to you?"

Myra shrugged. "I bet more than half of your coworkers would be thrilled to see me hurt," she muttered. "Frankly, I don't blame them."

He leaned forward, his lips almost touching her ear. "They're shortsighted, if that's the case," he whispered. "You're far more valuable than they realize."

She hunched her shoulders involuntarily, hissing in pain at the reflexive movement. "Geez!" she exclaimed softly. "Buy me dinner first."

Clayton blushed, pulling back. "Sorry," he replied. "I'm not sure what came over me."

Myra refused to meet his eyes, her pale cheeks tinged with just a hint of pink. "It's fine," she said hastily. "Let's just go."

Dr. Holdren sighed, slowly wheeling her out of the lab and into the brightly-lit atrium. As they crossed the rotunda, he noted with concern how many people were watching Myra. Some stared in open admiration, others greeting her in friendly but restrained tones. It was natural given who she was, he supposed. But there were others, a malicious glare here, a whispered remark there...those were far more worrying. Intellectually, Clayton had known that Myra's presence was divisive. He honestly hadn't expected the hostility to be so overt, however. She might be an outsider, but Myra was still Father's mother. Was the Director's control really growing so flimsy?

Under his disaffected demeanor, the scientist burned with anger. How dare they? Couldn't these fools see that Myra was their best chance for survival? How could they be so stupid as to alienate her? It irritated him immeasurably to see scientists behaving so illogically. He had expected better from so many of them.

Paired with this anger was another emotion, however, something more insidious, a seeping poison rather than a boundless flame. He wasn't just riled up at the hostility and disrespect. The praise and admiration annoyed him as well. Dr. Binet's words came unbidden to his mind: "_It would solve quite a few of our problems, if you did. If we could have more control over the variables...I could see that not being the worst decision._"

Why was he thinking of that now? The entire argument was absurd, anyway. Even if turning Myra's head away from Danse was necessary for the sake of the experiment, he couldn't seriously consider trying to woo her himself. Not only would it be extremely unethical, but it could backfire and put them both in considerably more danger. Besides, even if he admired her, Clayton had no interest in attempting to bond with Myra. His interest in her was pure scientific curiosity, nothing more. It was too dangerous to believe otherwise.

Still, outside of the huge breach of ethics, would it really be so bad? Clayton had to admit as he dropped her off at one of the cafeteria tables farthest from the counter that Myra was a striking woman. She was intelligent, charming, and capable. In other circumstances, someone like her would be an ideal partner for him. And he did care for her. The fact that he wanted so badly to protect her was a testament to that. Perhaps, if they really were out of options...

He walked to the counter, placing their orders. While his back blocked her view, he carefully slipped a small quantity of white powder into the greyish-green food paste on her plate, mixing it in. Clayton hated the fact that he had to trick her like this, but it was for her own good. Surely, that made his actions acceptable.

Myra's eyes met his as he returned to the table and she snorted harshly. "What's with the grim look, Clayton?"

"I'm just tired," he replied, sliding into the chair across from her.

She poked at the food supplement with her fork, frowning at it. "Ugh. This looks worse than the usual ones. No wonder you all are so uptight all the time. Say what you will about the surface, but there's real food up there."

"If you don't mind radiation poisoning," he shot back. "I know it's not pretty to look at, but we designed these meals to provide for nutrition, not to have nice presentation."

Myra sighed, taking a tentative bite. "Ugh! It's just so unsettling!"

"You really should just eat it," Clayton said. "Trust me, these things are way worse when they get cold."

She shuddered. "It's bad enough as it is. Have you tried this one yet?"

Clayton shook his head. "I usually stick to the ones I know I can tolerate."

Myra snickered. "I didn't take you for a stick in the mud." She held out a forkful to him, grinning. "Try it. It's super gross."

He frowned at the bite of food hovering by his mouth. "No thanks."

She prodded him with the fork. "Go on! You don't know what you're missing."

Dr. Holdren shook his head. "Are you crazy? People are wat-" his protest was cut short as she jammed the fork into his open mouth, grinning in triumph. He recoiled as the taste of heavily processed meat and vegetables assaulted his senses, his eyes wide. There weren't enough muscle relaxants in the dish that a single bite should affect him too badly, but all the same...

"It's terrible, right?" she asked, beaming.

He nodded, heat rising in his cheeks. "Y-yeah," he managed. Was everyone staring? It felt like everyone was staring.

Myra laughed. "You should see the look on your face!" she crowed. "It's almost enough to make me hate you less. Almost," she added quickly.

"Don't ever do something like that again," he grumbled.

She nodded. "Sorry. I couldn't resist. You just looked so worked up. I wanted to shock you out of it."

He stared across the table at her, eyes narrowed in confusion. "That's...almost considerate of you."

"I have my moments," she replied. "Well, now that I have your attention, there's something I wanted to discuss with you, actually."

Clayton relaxed slightly. "I'm happy to help you if I can, Miss Larimer. What's on your mind?"

Myra leaned closer, her voice low. "This place...I know I'm in danger here, Clayton. There's not really anyone I can trust. But after what you did for me, I'd like to think that I can at least begin to trust you." She pierced his eyes with her own. "You want something from me. I can tell. But whatever it is, I don't think you'll kill me to get it, which puts you below more than a few people down here on the danger scale. So I guess I'm just wondering if we can help each other."

He nodded, pretending to laugh at something she said. "Wow. That's so true!" he exclaimed, his eyes fixed on hers. "What do you have in mind?" he asked softly.

"You know where my Pip-Boy is," she said. "I want it back."

"Why?" he asked suspiciously. "You know you shouldn't return to the surface until you're well. It could be a death sentence."

Myra nodded. "Yeah, I know. That's not why I want it." She sighed. "I'm just so bored here, Clayton," she continued loudly, gently placing a hand on top of his. He flinched, but didn't pull away. "I'm not a scientist or anything. No one lets me do anything. And being stuck in this stupid chair, it's hard. I have some games on my Pip-Boy. They're not much, but at this rate, I'll take any distraction I can get."

So there was information stored on the device she needed. He'd suspected as much. That's why he'd told Alan to hide the device in the first place. It wasn't that Dr. Holdren wanted to help Myra hurt the Institute. Far from it. But he'd do anything to prevent compromising information from reaching the SRB. If this experiment was going to succeed, and it had to succeed, Myra needed to be able to operate freely. Dr. Ayo would throw her in a cage, or worse, and that wasn't an acceptable outcome.

Dr. Holdren shook his head. "Miss Larimer, I shouldn't. If you're that bored, you can always come help out in Bioscience. From what I saw the last time you were here, you look good in green."

She blushed slightly, her hand weighing heavier on top of his. "If I didn't know better, Clayton, I'd think you were flirting with me."

He grinned. "And if I didn't know better, I'd be certain you were trying to manipulate me. What's the plan? Cause scandal and blackmail me into letting you go?"

Myra gasped indignantly. "Do you really think so little of me? I told you, I'm just bored."

"Right." He sighed. "Look, there's no way I'm giving you access to teleportation until I know you have a fighting chance. You're still my patient. I'd hate to see something bad happen to you. Even with all the politics, you're safer here."

She frowned, letting go of his hand abruptly. "Fine. But how long do you think I can really stay cooped up like this? I'm wasting away here. We both know it. I have people who are counting on me out there. I can't just abandon them and wait for a clean bill of health."

"You don't really have a choice," Clayton retorted. "I know you're anxious to get back to your friends, but -"

The intercom crackled to life, cutting him off. "This is the Director," Father's voice called softly. "Would all department heads please assemble in the meeting room? I'm afraid there's been an incident."

Dr. Holdren's eyes widened. What did he mean, an incident? "Miss Larimer, I need to go," he said, standing hastily. He took a careful step, his limbs numb. Shit. Those muscle relaxants worked fast, didn't they?

Myra stared at him, confusion quickly fading to realization as he stumbled. "You son of a -"

"Mother, if you could attend as well," Father's voice continued, "this concerns you too."

"We're going to discuss this, Clayton," she hissed. "Don't think I'll forget."

He nodded. "After the meeting," the biologist agreed, his stomach clenching in horrible anticipation. He grabbed the wheelchair handles, somehow managing to keep himself upright. Whatever Father wanted, it had better be important. The old man may have just cost him whatever trust Myra was finally offering him.

* * *

**_A/N: And so, Volume 3 comes to a close, with more questions than answers. Will Myra find a way out of the Institute? Will the malicious force behind so much death and destruction in the Commonwealth finally be stopped? And what's going to happen between Myra and Danse, now that they're a couple? It's gonna be rough sailing, that's for sure!_**

**_I'm going to do my customary side story between the main volumes. This one's called "Writing on the Walls" and it's set at the Citadel after the events of Fallout 3. It's sort of an introduction to Lone Wanderer Heather Gautier as well as some young Danse and Maxson shenanigans._**

**_Volume 4, "The Fates Both Cruel and Changeable," will begin after that. It's gonna be a heartwrencher, so I hope you're prepared! Thanks again for all these months of support and readership! You guys make the tough times worth it and the good times so much better!_**

**_-Mnemoli_**


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